


A Memory That Never Forgets

by ImpishTubist



Series: Memory [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Language, Mentions of past abuse, Mystery, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 90,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The eldest son of a high-profile diplomat has been murdered, and pressure is mounting for the Yard to bring the case to a swift close. But when the prime suspect turns out to be Sherlock Holmes’ oldest friend and a man he knows to be innocent, Sherlock must find a way to clear his name - and uncover the real killer before he strikes again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta** : Canon-is-Relative
> 
> AU after “The Reichenbach Fall.” Title comes from The Who’s “You Better You Bet.” Victor Trevor is a character from ACD canon, and he appears in “The Adventure of the _Gloria Scott_." Mary Morstan appears in "The Sign of Four." This fic was written prior to S3, so this fic's Mary differs from the BBC one (and yet there are also some uncanny similarities). Any other characters you don’t recognize belong to me.
> 
> Many liberties have been taken with police and legal procedures, the reality of ambassadorships, medical procedures, etc., so don’t read any further if there’s a chance that will bother you. All my thanks to Canon for her beta skills. This wouldn’t be possible without her.

Victor Trevor didn’t fall asleep easily.

 

It was difficult to shut off a brain that never stopped thinking, and usually by the time he managed to do so, an hour or so had passed since his head first hit the pillow. He also didn’t easily stay asleep, though this was a necessary facet of his job. He was constantly on alert, even in his off hours, and could usually be pulled out of sleep by the slightest of sounds. Back when his employers had lived in the heart of a city, he could be awakened by something as small as the sound of a car engine revving, or by the hum of an unfamiliar street lamp turning out outside his window. The Bowers family had only been living in the country for a few weeks now, but already Victor had been woken by owls and frogs at night, and once the entire house had been placed on alert when a deer wandered too close to the security fence and set off the alarms.

 

But for all those minor annoyances, sleeping lightly was a useful skill to have. More than once in his years of service, it had saved the lives of the family he had been hired to guard - which was, after all, what Christopher Bowers paid him for. The unpopular diplomat had hired Victor fourteen years ago specifically to guard his youngest son, though Victor had looked out for the welfare of the entire family on more than one occasion.

 

Victor let out a slow sigh and rubbed a hand across his face, trying to clear his sleep-blurred vision. He had already been woken once tonight by his colleague returning home with Anthony, the oldest Bowers child. That had been around two-thirty, and Victor had fallen asleep again soon after that. Now, the clock on his bedside table told him that it was less than forty-five minutes later.

 

_ Hell _ .

 

He threw an arm over his eyes, blocking out the moonlight that seeped through his curtains and straining his ears. This time, Victor wasn’t sure if he had been woken by anything in particular, or if the _thud_ he thought he’d heard had been a part of a dream that he forgot the moment his eyes opened. He pushed himself up on his elbows and paused for a moment, listening. It wasn’t good to ignore these things, even if the rest of the staff goaded him for the false alarm afterwards, so Victor swung his legs over the side of the bed, sat up, and grabbed his radio.

 

“This is Trevor,” he said in a sleep-roughened voice, slipping the earpiece into his ear and clipping the radio to the waistband of his pajama bottoms. “Everything all right out there?”

 

“Everything’s quiet,” Marie Hammond answered him immediately from the mansion's control room. “Something wrong?”

 

He shook his head, even though she couldn’t see.

 

“No, I don’t think so. I heard something. It’s probably just the boys up.”

 

“Anthony returned a little while ago with Agent Wright.”

 

“Yeah, I heard ‘em.” Victor rubbed the back of his neck wearily. He was going to feel the lack of sleep acutely in the morning. “Thanks.”

 

Victor got to his feet and, for good measure, grabbed his gun. He padded out into the corridor. The boys’ rooms were at the other end of the long hall. At fourteen and sixteen, respectively, Timothy and Anthony Bowers were beginning to finally push back against their father’s strict rules. Having a personal bodyguard who accompanied them everywhere they went, in addition to their security detail, was difficult to handle. Having one that stayed in the same house as they did was almost too much, especially at their ages. Christopher Bowers had finally compromised with his children. Victor and his colleague, Stephen Wright, lived in separate suites on the same floor as the boys, but they were placed at the other end of a long corridor. It was as much space as Christopher was willing to give his children. Victor was surprised they were allowed it at all.

 

In the darkness of the corridor, he couldn’t tell if Stephen’s door was closed until he was upon it. Victor saw then that it was standing wide open, which meant that Stephen must have gone to check on the boys as well.

 

Victor’s heart rate kicked up a couple of notches. Maybe he _had_ heard something unusual after all.

 

Timothy’s door was also standing open, though that wasn’t surprising. He had a habit of going into Anthony’s room after the rest of the house had gone to bed, and the two brothers would stay up talking for hours.

 

Anthony’s door was open just a crack, and Victor rested his right shoulder lightly against it. He held his gun in both hands, and he pressed his ear against the door, listening.

 

There was nothing for several long seconds. And then he heard what sounded like a sharp _crack,_ which was followed quickly by a strangled gasp. 

Victor shoved the door open fully with his shoulder and burst inside the room, gun raised. He registered first that Anthony was lying facedown on the floor by his bed in a pool of red. Then, that Stephen Wright was lying next to Anthony, his eyes black and glassy as he stared sightlessly at the ceiling.

 

Victor dropped into a crouch next to Anthony and placed a hand on his neck, feeling for a pulse. There was so much blood, his fingers slipped before finally finding purchase on the underside of Anthony’s chin. He frantically sought out the pulse-point, and couldn’t feel the reassuring beat against the pads of his fingers.

 

There was a sudden rustling sound behind him. Victor whipped around, gun at the ready, to see a small figure sitting in the corner -

 

\- and then the back of his head exploded in pain as a heavy object slammed into it, bringing Victor to his knees. He kept hold of his gun, just barely, and dimly reached for his radio.

But then he was struck again, this time across the left side of his face, and the world exploded into white before fading into nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

The late-afternoon sun was warm and golden, and John reveled in the feel of it upon his face and neck.

He had only spent nine months in Afghanistan over eight years ago, but even though the experience had been barely more than fleeting, it had nonetheless left a lasting impression on him. The English weather, for one thing, was just a shade too cold and always too damp. There were only a few days in the summer, it seemed, when John was comfortable enough outside to wear only a t-shirt and jeans.

This was one of them.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was still dressed in his customary dark trousers and smart shirt, and he didn’t seem to be affected by the heat, though he had conceded to the weather by rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows.

They were in that short-lived and delicate period following the solving of a case, when Sherlock would concede to such lowly things as food and sleep without putting up any sort of fuss. This time around, John had even managed to get Sherlock out of the flat with only a handful of mild complaints. 

And a shot of whiskey, which John wasn’t supposed to have noticed. This time, however, he didn’t bother mentioning it. He was learning quickly where to pick his battles, and getting Sherlock out of the flat voluntarily was a victory in and of itself.

There wasn’t any particular purpose to their venture today, except that John was hungry and they didn’t have anything in. He could have gone to the shops, which probably would have been the sensible thing to do, but that didn’t appeal to him right now. He would do that later. In the meantime, he wanted to enjoy the warm August sun and the remnants of summer before the season disappeared completely.

He attempted small talk with Sherlock as they strolled along, though it really was more of a one-sided conversation. No matter, John thought. Even if he didn’t get a response, he knew that Sherlock was listening. 

“Mary says you should come to dinner on Friday,” he said finally, having run out of stories from the clinic. Sherlock grunted.

“Busy.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” Sherlock said, “I’m not.”

“C’mon, Sherlock, this is the third dinner you’ve declined! You’re my best man, for God’s sake -”

“I didn’t realise that meant I was required to attend pointless dinner parties months before the wedding,” Sherlock said absently. John grit his teeth. Sherlock was like that now - absent, mild. He was like tarnished silver or a blunt knife, his edge lost along with his reputation years ago. 

“It’s not a dinner party, it’s just _dinner_. And -”

“Going my way?”

John turned at the sound of the familiar voice and came face-to-face with Greg Lestrade. He was dressed for the office, looking just on the side of too-warm with his shirtsleeves and suit jacket. He gave an easy smile, which John returned, and then flashed a hesitant one at Sherlock. John couldn’t blame him. They were all careful around Sherlock these days.

“We just stepped out for a bite,” John said. 

“Ah, so did I. Late lunch.” But there was something brisk about Lestrade’s words, and the way he held himself told John that there was something on his mind. John hoped it was a case, even though Sherlock had just solved one. He had quickly discovered, in the tumultuous weeks after Sherlock’s return five years ago, that it was best to keep the detective as busy as possible. The less time he was left on his own to brood, the better. “Walk with me?”

He said it in a tone that indicated right away that it wasn’t even close to a question, and John obediently started after him when he turned away. Sherlock followed a beat later, which John tried not to think too much about. He was always like that, nowadays. Slower, quieter, more tired. Lethargic and listless. 

“What was that?” John asked suddenly, forcibly breaking himself from his thoughts. Lestrade had been speaking, but he hadn’t registered any of it. They had come to stop in front of one of the many street vendors, and Lestrade was looking at him expectantly. It took John’s brain a moment to catch up, and he realised it was his turn to order. “Oh, right. Let’s see…”

This kind of food was probably the last thing he needed right now, but Sherlock had been looking peaky in recent days, and the skin was stretched tight across his prominent cheekbones. He’d been losing weight - again - and John didn’t like it. He ordered crepes and coffee for them both. 

“You needed to talk to us about something,” John prompted finally as he was paying for their food. Lestrade paused before taking a sip of his coffee, as though he wasn’t sure whether or not he should admit to it. 

“Well, to Sherlock, actually,” Lestrade said, casting a glance over his shoulder at their lanky shadow. “But yeah, I do. Didn’t mean to run into you, though. That was luck. I was going to stop by Baker Street in the morning.”

“Get on with it, Lestrade.” Sherlock’s tone was flat. He wasn’t even looking at them. 

“All right. I need to talk to you about the Anthony Bowers case,” Lestrade said after a beat. “Heard of it?”

“No,” Sherlock replied absently, eyes on his mobile.

“Yeah, you have,” John said. He took their crepes from the street vendor and handed one to Sherlock. He turned back to the vendor for his change and added, “Oh, and there were two coffees - yeah, perfect. Thanks.”

“Anthony Bowers,” Sherlock said impatiently to Lestrade. “What of him? Has he done something interesting?”

“Died, if you count that,” John said. “God, I read the article to you! Were you even _listening_?”

“No.”

“He’s the son of the British Ambassador to the U.S.,” Lestrade said, speaking over them both. “Well, former ambassador. Christopher Bowers retired a few months ago and moved the family back to England. His eldest son, Anthony, was murdered on Monday, as was the boy’s bodyguard, a man named Stephen Wright. Timothy, Bowers’ youngest child, nearly died that night as well. He survived the attack, and he witnessed the whole thing. Needless to say, given Bowers’ stature, there’s been pressure to end this, and to end it quickly.”

“Must be rough,” John said sympathetically, and Lestrade’s face darkened. There were deep shadows under his eyes that were unusual even for him, and his cheeks were beginning to appear sunken. John wondered when Lestrade had last had time for a meal.

“We were working three cases when this one happened,” he confided quietly as they walked down the street, shoulder-to-shoulder. People walking in the opposite direction had to skirt around them or step into the street in order to pass them. “One of them was a dead child. Six years old. All of them got pushed aside because Christopher Bowers got lucky twenty years ago and made a fortune, so his son is supposed to mean more than anyone else’s child. The sooner we solve this, the sooner he goes away and the sooner I can get back to trying to explain to two young parents why someone saw fit to murder their only child. Got it?”

“Got it,” John answered, slightly taken aback at the note of bitterness in Lestrade’s voice. He elbowed Sherlock, who hummed in agreement. “So, what do you need from us?”

Lestrade looked at Sherlock. “How effective are your interrogation techniques? No, don’t look at me like that, I’m serious.”

Sherlock was looking bemused.

“I’m a consulting detective, Lestrade, not your muscle man,” he said. Lestrade sighed.

“Look, you’re the closest thing I have, all right? And I don’t mean for you to lay a hand on him. It’s just that, well, you’re probably the cleverest bloke I know. Oh, don’t puff up like that, it’s just a fact. You could probably talk circles around this guy and tie him up into knots; find a way for him to implicate himself without even realising it. Hell, you could probably even get him to confess.”

“Wait,” John stepped in, “what guy? You’ve got a suspect?”

“I think we have the killer,” Lestrade said. “Can’t say for sure, yet, of course, but it’s not looking good for him. He was the bodyguard for the youngest son. He was found at the scene of the crime and holding the murder weapon. He claimed that the murderer fled and left the weapon behind. Has his fair share of bruises, I'll grant you that, but I'm willing to bet it's because the others put up a good fight before he killed them. This needs to be airtight, Sherlock. I’d feel a hell of a lot better about this whole thing if we could get the guy to confess. The evidence is good, but it’s not perfect.”

“What about the boy - Timothy?” John shrugged. “If he’s a witness, why not ask him what he saw?”

Sherlock sighed impatiently, but Lestrade was the one who answered.

“The boy’s terrified,” Lestrade said. “Not to mention traumatized. It was dark that night, and eye-witness accounts are unreliable enough to begin with. Besides, our suspect was his personal bodyguard. Of course Timothy isn’t going to say anything against him.”

Sherlock took a bite of his crepe and chewed for several maddeningly long seconds. John was about to slap him upside the head when Sherlock finally gave an audible swallow and said, “Where do you have the suspect?”

Lestrade relaxed visibly.

“He’s at the Yard. Can you come by today?”

“We’ll come back with you,” John jumped in before Sherlock could refuse.

Sherlock scowled at him, but then he nodded reluctantly.

\-----

The third storey of the Yard was quiet at this hour of the afternoon. Most of the activity seemed to be focused on the small, windowless room where Lestrade was keeping his suspect. Two sergeants were lingering outside the room, obviously waiting for Lestrade.

In the wake of Sherlock’s apparent suicide a little over six years ago, Lestrade’s team had been disbanded and Lestrade himself had been put on suspension. He had eventually accepted a demotion while his former colleagues were all moved to different teams, and it wasn’t until Sherlock’s return a year later that things were put somewhat to rights again. Lestrade had been given his old position back, but his team was new. DS Carter, a curly-haired and amiable fellow, nodded cordially at John as they approached. His colleague, Sasha Morales, said, “There’s no news.”

“I figured as much,” Lestrade sighed. To John and Sherlock, he added, “He’s been in there for hours. He won’t speak, won’t answer our questions, barely even moves. Sherlock, I need answers out of this guy. Quickly as you can.”

“What’s his name?” Sherlock appeared at least mildly interested at this point, though he clearly wasn’t very enthusiastic about this potential case. 

“Victor Trevor,” Lestrade said briskly. “And get this - he’s a former police constable. One of our own.”

Lestrade was already moving away, making to open the door, and so he didn’t catch the expression on Sherlock’s face. John did, though, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d have said that it appeared as though someone had punched Sherlock. It lasted only a moment, though, and by the time Lestrade turned around again, Sherlock had regained his composure. 

“Mr Trevor,” Lestrade announced as he walked into the room ahead of Sherlock and John, “this is Sherlock Holmes, a consultant of ours, and Dr Watson, his assistant. They have a few questions for you.”

Sherlock stopped on the threshold. 

John slammed into his back and gave an indignant “ _Oi!”_ Lestrade shot them both a look that said, _So help me, if you cock this up I will strangle you,_ and John dug his fingers into Sherlock’s ribs. Sherlock jerked away and stepped fully into the room, but he remained a good five feet away from the table where the suspect was seated. 

Victor Trevor was a brawny man. He had broad shoulders and thick hands, and even though he was sitting it was apparent that he would tower over all of them when standing--even Sherlock. He had dark hair and amber eyes, and his expression was impassive. He’d had his gaze fixed calmly on the table--and his folded hands--when Lestrade came into the room, but at the sound of Sherlock’s name his head snapped up to stare at the newcomers.

Trevor had a fading bruise on his left cheekbone and a butterfly bandage that was holding the skin together over his left eyebrow. His knuckles were beginning to scab over, and he had a healing split lip. He had obviously been in a scuffle recently, but John couldn’t tell whether his injuries were defensive or not. 

They stared at one another for several long seconds, Sherlock and Trevor, and John suppressed a shudder. He remembered the first time Sherlock’s dissecting gaze had been directed at him, cold and calculating and ruthless, and he could almost feel Sherlock picking apart the man at the table.

It was an age before Sherlock spoke.

“You’ve got the wrong man,” he said flatly. He raised his eyes to Lestrade, who seemed to deflate a little. “Release him.”

“Sherlock -”

“Cufflinks!” Sherlock exclaimed, pointing at Trevor’s wrists. “Look at his cufflinks, Lestrade! _Clearly_ this man had nothing to do with the murders.”

“I -”

“And you’re forgetting about his fingernails, and the way he’s parted his hair. There’s no way he could have done it. So _release_ him.”

Lestrade stared at Sherlock in utter disbelief. Sherlock met his gaze unwaveringly.

“He’s not your killer,” he said quietly. “Release. Him.”

For some moments, there was no sound apart from the ticking of the clock on the wall.

“Trevor,” Lestrade said finally, not breaking eye contact with Sherlock, “you can go.”

“Sir -” Carter protested, but Lestrade held up a hand.

“Get out of my sight, son, and don’t make me ask you again,” Lestrade said, his voice hard, and Trevor apparently didn’t need telling a third time. He got up from his seat and ducked out of the room. Carter and Morales followed him, but not before Morales shot Sherlock a glare. 

“You wanna tell me what that was all about?” Lestrade asked Sherlock in a low voice. 

“It wasn’t him,” Sherlock said. 

“Yeah, so you keep saying.” Lestrade looked highly irritated, and he folded his arms across his chest. “Forgive me if I'm skeptical. You never pass up a moment to show off your skills, but I think that was the quickest deduction I’ve ever heard from you--not to mention the most incomplete.”

Sherlock’s gaze turned earnest.

“It wasn’t him,” he said, and now his voice sounded almost pleading. “I will find you your killer, Lestrade. And it won’t be him.”

“You’re sure?” 

“Yes.”

“Sherlock -”

“I’m _sure_.”

Lestrade’s eyes flicked to John, who shrugged. 

“Right,” Lestrade said finally. “Okay. But I still need a name, Sherlock. I need _something_. If I don’t see you making any progress on this in the next twenty-four hours, I’m bringing him back in and pressing charges. Is that clear?”

“Forty-eight.”

Lestrade shook his head.

“No. Twenty-four, and you’re lucky to even get that much.”

Sherlock looked as though he wanted to argue further, but the look on Lestrade’s face was enough to show even him that it was a waste of time. He sighed.

“Give me copies of all your notes and relevant information about the case. I’ll have something for you by tomorrow afternoon. John, I’ll meet you back at the flat.”

“Wait, where are you -”

Sherlock spun on his heel and breezed from the room without waiting for John to finish the question. John, with one last helpless look at Lestrade, followed.

\----

Victor had his back to Sherlock. 

He was gathering his personal effects from the officer who had confiscated them from him prior to the interrogation session. Morales kept a watchful eye on the proceedings from her post by the door, and she didn’t immediately notice Sherlock come into the room. They exchanged a nod once she did, and then watched as Victor took the clear plastic bag from the officer and moved off to the side to retrieve his items. He fastened his watch to his left wrist and slipped his wallet into his back trouser pocket. He then picked up his mobile and, after exchanging a cordial nod with the officer on duty behind the partition, turned around.

Sherlock was the one he noticed first, and for a moment neither one of them moved. Morales cleared her throat.

“You’re free to go,” she said unnecessarily. “But if we have further questions -”

“You have my most current contact information,” Victor said, not looking at her. “You know where to find me.”

Morales looked as though she wanted to say something more, but she eventually settled for giving him a curt nod and leaving the room. 

“Hello,” Victor said finally, quietly. 

“Hello?” Sherlock repeated incredulously. What an absurd thing to say after sixteen years. 

Then again, it was slightly better than what he’d managed to say, which was nothing. Victor gave a tiny, self-deprecating smile. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“They kept you overnight.”

Victor gave a slow shrug and finally pocketed his mobile. “Wasn’t so bad. Not the most comfortable place to sleep in the world, but it’s not like I would have got much sleep anyway, what with… everything.”

“You knew this was coming.”

Victor snorted. “I was the first person on the scene after the murders. I was the only one who saw the killer. Of course they were going to suspect me first and foremost.”

He leveled a look at Sherlock, his face suddenly grim. “But you shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have interfered on my behalf.”

“I had to.”

Victor grunted. “Where’s Dr Watson?”

“Looking for me, I expect. He’ll give up in five minutes and head back to Baker Street.”

Victor nodded to himself. “Well. You look good.”

Sherlock gave a quiet huff of disbelief. He knew perfectly well how much the hardships of his time as a dead man had physically aged him beyond his years. He knew all of the new lines and faint scars, and it seemed that every day he was finding more and more grey in his hair. He wasn’t far away from middle age, but one would assume he had reached it years ago just by the look of him.

Victor, on the other hand, wore middle age well. He’d be forty by now - no, it was August, he was forty-one. The years had been kind to him. The softness of youth had melted from his face since the last time Sherlock saw him, leaving behind a strong jaw and prominent nose. Tiny lines were stamped at the corners of his eyes and framed his mouth, and his dark hair was beginning to silver at the temples. He was wearing faded jeans and a black shirt, and he watched Sherlock through the striking brown eyes that Sherlock remembered well from their university days. 

Sherlock was aware then that the silence had stretched on for far too long, and he swallowed past a dry throat. 

“You cut your hair,” he said finally. It was the only thing he could think to say. 

Victor ran a hand self-consciously through his spiked dark hair, which then stuck up in all directions. The last time Sherlock had seen it, it had been a sun-kissed brunet mop that Victor had constantly been brushing out of his eyes. 

“Yes, well,” Victor said awkwardly. “Needed a change.”

“Where have you been?” Sherlock asked, his voice quiet. It wasn’t the question he’d meant to ask, but it was out before he could stop the words. Regret flickered in Victor’s face.

“It’s a long story.” 

He started to take a step closer, but Sherlock held up a hand, stopping him. 

“Mumbai,” he said, because he had managed to track Victor that far sixteen years ago. But Victor had disappeared soon after that.

Victor nodded slowly. “For two years.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Sherlock nodded absently to himself. The family scandal. Yes, he had suspected as much at the time. He had understood Victor running away.

But he had never understood why Victor never returned. 

As though Victor could read his mind, he said, “I met Christopher Bowers there. Another long story. His wife was pregnant again, and Bowers was in the market for a bodyguard for the child. He already had one for Anthony.”

“And you?”

“And I was in the market for something… different.”

“A new life.”

“That was part of it.” Victor was so calm about it all, so steady in the face of Sherlock’s confusion. Sherlock didn’t know whether he was grateful for it or whether he wanted to strangle Victor. “I’ve lived with the family ever since. Timothy was born in India. Bowers moved the family to the U.S. shortly after that. Aside from the occasional holiday, this is the first time I’ve been back living on English soil since I was twenty-five. Are you still on Baker Street?”

“I - yes.” Sherlock floundered for a moment, thrown by the abrupt change of topic. “How did you know?”

“I’ve read some of Dr Watson’s stories. Do you still live together?”

“Call him John. And it’s not like that,” Sherlock said, immediately defensive, and Victor laughed.

“I know that, idiot,” he said warmly. There was unexpected affection in his voice, which disarmed Sherlock yet again. “I know _you_. But I’m afraid I’m a bit behind on things. I didn’t keep up with anything - or anyone - from home when I left. I started reading John’s books only after you… died. It’s quite the life you’ve made for yourself.”

“It suits me,” Sherlock said automatically. That was a lie he’d been telling himself and others for so long that he almost believed it.

Victor’s eyes narrowed, as though he wasn’t quite convinced. But he didn’t pursue the topic. “Will you be taking the case?”

Sherlock inclined his head. “Yes. It’s… intriguing.”

“I want to help.”

Sherlock hesitated. “I don’t know if that’s wise.”

“Why not?”

_ Because it hurts just to look at you.  _

“Never mind,” Sherlock said, shaking his head slightly. “Yes, that’s - that’s a good idea. Come back to the flat with me. We can start to work on it from there.”

Victor flashed him a grateful smile and followed him from the room.

\-----

The introductions back at Baker Street were unexpectedly tense.

John appeared to be inexplicably wary of Victor, and when they shook hands, Sherlock watched as John’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny. Victor, in return, gave John a bland smile, but his eyes were equally alert. They clasped hands only briefly before moving to stand on opposite sides of the kitchen. Victor stood closest to Sherlock and folded his arms across his chest, his stance defensive. John’s lips thinned.

“What’s going on?” he asked shortly.

“Victor’s here to help us with the case,” Sherlock said, frowning, because it should have been obvious.

“No offense, Sherlock, but five minutes ago he was the prime suspect in this case,” John said bluntly. “Now he’s popping ‘round for tea to help you - us - solve it?”

Sherlock glared at him, unexpected anger flaring in his chest.

“Victor is innocent,” he said in a low voice, fighting to keep his words steady. “I’ve already explained that to both you and Lestrade. Don’t ask me to justify myself to you this time, John, when you’ve always trusted me before.”

John stared at him for a moment, appearing slightly bewildered at the outburst, and then finally gave a barely-perceptible nod.

“So how did you two meet?” John asked after a beat of silence, turning his gaze to Victor.

“I've known Sherlock since university,” Victor said, and John lifted an eyebrow.

“Well, this is the first I’m hearing of you,” he said, an edge to his voice. Sherlock tensed and scowled at John. Victor, however, merely snorted.

“The first time we met, it was because my dog bit him,” he said dryly. “I don’t think it’s something Sherlock likes to remember with fondness.”

John snorted and relaxed somewhat.

“And that made you fast mates, did it?”

“God, no,” Sherlock said. “We hated each other.”

“We did,” Victor confirmed. John gave a dry chuckle. “But this one’s hard to forget. We eventually warmed to each other.”

“And as fascinating as this must all be to you,” Sherlock said impatiently to John, “we need to discuss the case. Victor?"

“Give me your computer,” Victor said, and Sherlock fetched his laptop from the main room. “We’re going to need to start at the beginning with this one.”

Christopher Bowers, for all his accomplishments, was a painfully ordinary-looking fellow. Sherlock had expected him to stand out, but if he hadn’t known the significance of the name, he would never have looked twice at the man. The photograph Victor pulled up on his computer showed a balding man of perhaps fifty or sixty who sported wire-rimmed glasses. He was trim and tall, and his nose was blunt while his jaw was strong.

“I’ve been with the family for fourteen years,” Victor said. “I started with them when I was twenty-seven.”

“And before then?” John asked. “What led you to them?”

“I was a police constable, actually,” Victor said. He gave Sherlock a smile that was almost fond. “I didn’t have the luxury of knowing what I wanted to do with myself like this one did. Chemist first and foremost, he is. Was always blowing up stuff at university.”

“Only a couple of times,” Sherlock muttered, but he wasn’t particularly irritated at the jab. Victor laughed.

“I found myself a bit aimless after graduation,” he explained to John. “I didn’t really know where to channel my energy or which of my interests to focus on. I became an officer right out of university because it intrigued me at the time, and working with the Met suited me for a while, but after a few years it was no longer satisfying.”

“He then moved to India,” Sherlock said, hoping to move the story along - and also because he knew Victor wouldn’t want to focus for long on what led him to leaving England.

”I met Christopher Bowers while I was working in Mumbai,” Victor continued, giving Sherlock a grateful nod. “His wife was expecting their second child - Timothy. He was in need of a bodyguard, and I needed a change of pace. So when Bowers made that job offer, I didn’t hesitate. I tell you, John, that job was like a dream come true. I traveled all over the world with them, and I was certainly never bored.”

“Yes, getting back to the case,” Sherlock broke in impatiently. Victor sighed and returned to his narration.

Christopher Bowers, Victor told them, made his fortune before the age of twenty-two, and he married his girlfriend as soon as they left university. She was wife number one, and she lasted all of five years before they went their separate ways. Bowers’ second wife was a woman named Elizabeth, and they had two children prior to her death five years ago.

“She was half his age when they met,” Victor said. “But they were happy together. And the boys never wanted for anything. Anthony’s their first-born. He’s two years older than Timothy.”

“Was,” Sherlock said quietly. Pain flashed across Victor’s features for a brief moment before he was able to mask it.

“That’s gonna take some getting used to,” Victor muttered. “ _Was_. Jesus Christ. He was only sixteen, Sherlock.”

“And, by extension, Timothy is fourteen. If you don’t want to see harm come to him as well, _keep talking_.”

Christopher Bowers accepted a position with the British Embassy in the U.S. shortly after Timothy was born, Victor went on, and eventually was appointed ambassador . He served in that particular position for four years before retiring two months ago and moving the family back to England.

“You’ve been with them for a long time,” John commented when Victor paused again. “You and Wright watched those boys grow up.”

Victor’s face shadowed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I did. The family hired the services of a security company, and so they always had a series of bodyguards and drivers that came and went. But Stephen and I were there on a constant basis. We lived on the property. I think we spent more time with the boys than their own parents did.”

“Tell me about the night of the murder,” Sherlock said. Victor blew out a harsh breath between his teeth.

“Timothy had gone to bed around midnight. Anthony was out with friends, and Stephen was with him. They came back to the house around two-thirty.”

“You were awake?”

Victor shook his head. “Sort of. I’m a light sleeper. It comes in handy when in this line of work. I heard them come in, and then I drifted off again, but not for long.”

“What woke you?”

“Nothing consequential. I thought I heard a thud.” Victor’s hand had started to shake, Sherlock noticed. He balled it into a fist, and the tremors stopped. “I didn’t realise until later that it was the sound of Stephen’s body hitting the floor. Anthony was already dead at that point. I don’t know what made me get out of bed and investigate, because it wasn’t an unusual noise at all. But I did, and when I got to Anthony’s room -”

Victor swallowed.

“I don't think I've ever seen that much blood,” he went on finally. “They’d both been shot.”

“Timothy was there,” Sherlock prompted. Victor nodded.

“I don’t know why. I think the boys were talking when the killer surprised them. They were close, those two. Anthony watched over his little brother more than their parents did, so it wasn’t unusual to find them both up late, hanging out and chatting.” Victor swallowed visibly. “When I went into the room, I saw the bodies first. I turned around and saw Timothy sitting in the corner, and that’s when I was ambushed.”

He touched the back of his head, suppressing a grimace. “I was hit twice. The killer nearly knocked me out with the second blow; I know I blacked out for at least a couple of seconds. When I came back to myself, I managed to get the weapon away from him and put out a call over the radio to the rest of the house.”

“How long did it take for backup to arrive?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m told it was only a few minutes, but it felt like hours. It was too long, at any rate. The killer had fled by the time anyone got to the room, and I was holding his weapon.” Victor grimaced at the memory.

“What prompted you to enter the room in the first place?”

“Timothy,” Victor said. “I heard a crack and what sounded like a gasp. Turns out, that was the killer striking Timothy. I think he was trying to silence him - though at that point, Timothy would have been too terrified to cry out anyway. He never would have raised the alarm, and the killer would have got away with his crimes.”

John shook his head sadly. “Was Timothy hurt badly at all?”

Victor swallowed. “I think he’s all right, physically. He didn’t need a doctor. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, but I haven’t spoken to him since. I was hospitalized that night for a concussion.”

“They released you the next day?” Sherlock asked, slotting this piece of information into his mental timeline, and Victor nodded.

“Christopher Bowers pulled me from Timothy’s security detail after that and assigned a different full-time bodyguard in my place. He had to, really - I spent the next couple of days in questioning and couldn’t have actually watched over Tim. I was still allowed to stay in my lodgings, but I couldn’t interact with the family until things got cleared up. And then, when they finally named me a suspect yesterday, Bowers put me on suspension.”

“Are you still staying at the house?” Sherlock asked. Victor shook his head.

“No. Bowers is setting me up in a flat not far from here; he has people moving my things over as we speak. We spoke briefly today after Lestrade released me. Bowers doesn’t believe for a moment that I’d harm his children, which is a relief, but he doesn’t feel he can reinstate me into his service at the moment, even though I’ve been released. He’ll continue paying me for a while, and then after an appropriate amount of time has passed, I’ll receive a severance and his best wishes.”

“What a generous offer after fourteen years of service,” John said dryly. Victor shrugged.

“It’s really his only option. He has to look out for Timothy, and for his own reputation. I don’t blame him for being cautious.” He gave a weak smile. “And look at it this way - I’m all yours for the time being.”

“What a joy,” Sherlock said, but it didn’t sound nearly as sarcastic as he had been intending. Victor snorted.

“Just like old times, right, mate?”

For a brief moment, warmth flickered behind Sherlock’s navel as he gazed at Victor, and he felt the hint of a smile touch his lips.

It faded quickly, though. They had more pressing matters to concern themselves with at the moment. Sherlock gestured to a chair.

“Sit down. Don’t talk, don’t move, don’t distract me.” He turned to John. “Thoughts?”

“Why was the second boy left alive for so long?” John mused. He looked at Victor. “There must have been at least a minute between you hearing Agent Wright’s death and entering that room. Timothy was struck, but he wasn’t killed. At least, not yet. What was the killer doing in the meantime?”

“Searching for valuables, possibly,” Sherlock said. Money was a powerful motivating factor in crimes, and the killer had been in the home of a wealthy diplomat. “Either that, or he needed Timothy alive for a time. Perhaps he meant to kidnap the boy.”

John was looking at the crime scene photographs they had fetched from the Yard.

“We’re assuming the killer is male, given the nature of the crime and the fact that he could fight off a well-trained bodyguard,” he said finally. “And he's right-handed, going by Victor’s injuries. A right-handed man would punch across the left side of a victim’s face, for instance. Let’s see… he shot Wright in the chest, which killed him within seconds. The boy -”

John broke off and looked hesitantly at Victor.

“Anthony had been forced to kneel facing the bed. He was shot in the back of the head, execution-style,” Victor said dully. He looked away. “He would have been dead already when Stephen entered the room. It would have been the last thing he saw.”

A heavy silence followed. Sherlock, compelled by a feeling he couldn’t name, reached out and placed a hand on Victor’s shoulder. Victor twisted around to look at him, and their gazes met for an endless moment. It was only when John moved that the spell was broken, and Sherlock stepped away abruptly, his hand falling from Victor’s shoulder.

"So, really, we don't know anything useful." John rubbed a hand across his face. "Damn."

"We do," Sherlock assured. "We just need to figure out what exactly _it_ is."

“Well, good luck with that. I’m due to meet Mary for dinner." John stretched and started to move towards the door. “Let me know what you figure out - I’ll lend a hand when I can, but I probably won’t be available again for a few days. Victor, it’s nice to meet you. Sorry to leave you with him all night on your own, but - well -”

Victor shook his hand. His charming smile was back in place, and all melancholy had melted from his eyes.

“Take whatever time you can get with her,” he said with a wink. “God knows you’re not going to get much of it with this one around.”

“I _am_ still standing here, you realise,” Sherlock muttered.

John laughed. “Don’t worry, I intend to. G’night, Victor; Sherlock.”


	3. Chapter 3

When John had gone, Victor turned to Sherlock and flashed a brilliant smile - the kind that Sherlock remembered from their university days. It was the kind of smile that Victor gave when he emerged, victorious and elated, from a rugby match.

It was joyous.

“Dare I ask what you find so enjoyable?” Sherlock asked warily.

“You,” Victor said simply, and Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. He hadn’t been expecting that response. “Being here. God, Sherlock, how long’s it been? Fifteen years?”

“Sixteen,” Sherlock corrected, slightly irritated and then disheartened that Victor hadn’t known that. Had he been the only one to truly feel the passage of time; to feel acutely the weight of all the years he had gone without his friend?

“Too long,” Victor said, and a warmth spread through Sherlock’s chest. He swallowed hard.

“And whose fault was that?” he asked quietly. Victor’s smile dimmed, and for a moment Sherlock regretted the words.

“Mine, of course,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why did you go, Victor?” Sherlock swallowed again, his jaw clenching. This was _absurd_. Why was his body reacting in this manner? Victor was alive, and he was well. So why did it feel as though someone was sitting on his chest? “And why didn’t you tell me?”

“I ran away,” Victor said simply. “And I don’t know, Sherlock. I really don’t.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“I know.” Victor’s gaze was steady, and his eyes were too kind. Sherlock fought not to look away. 

“I never looked for you.” Sherlock’s jaw ached from the effort it was taking him to hold himself in check, and he was practically hissing the words through gritted teeth. “I knew if you had died, Mycroft would know. I would know. But you - you just didn’t want to be found. I never heard anything, and so I knew. I knew that you were out there, and you didn’t want me to know where.”

“It wasn’t that -”

“What was it, then?” Sherlock snapped. 

“Difficult to explain,” Victor said firmly. There was a note of finality in his voice that Sherlock wasn’t used to hearing, and he didn’t know what to do with it. “I’m sorry for all that happened, truly I am, but right now we’ve got bigger problems.”

Sherlock drew a deep breath through his nose, and then finally nodded. It would help to focus on the case; it always did. 

“There are only two things that we know for sure,” he began, trying to get his brain back on track. “That Anthony Bowers and his bodyguard are dead… and that you are not their killer.”

Victor gave a quiet snort.

“You don’t even know that much,” he said quietly.

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock said firmly. Victor sighed.

“Sherlock, you don’t actually know that I’m not the killer.”

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment, briefly considering and then dismissing denying this claim. Victor never would have believed him, anyway. He was a difficult one to fool.

“I don’t have solid proof,” he said finally. “But you aren’t the killer.”

“You’re a bloody idiot,” Victor said heatedly. “You could very well have compromised the whole case by having Lestrade cut me loose!”

“Did you kill Anthony Bowers or Stephen Wright?”

“No.”

“Then the case is fine,” Sherlock said, waving a hand absently in Victor’s general direction. “You didn’t kill them.”

“But _you_ don’t know that!” Victor burst out.

“We were friends for five years before you vanished,” Sherlock snapped. “You were the only one worth associating with out of that whole bloody university. Do you think I learned nothing about you during all that time? I’m not an _idiot_ , Victor. I _know_ you, and you aren’t a killer.”

“I am, though,” Victor said. “Damn it, Sherlock, I spent fourteen years protecting the son of one of the most visible - and eventually hated - men in North America! You think it was all protecting picnics and vetting private tutors and guarding garden parties? Jesus Christ. I think Bowers had a half dozen attempts on his life every year, and his children were fair game, too. You really think I went through all that without killing anyone?”

Sherlock had no problem with death, and certainly no issues with life--it was the transition between the two that had always caused him discomfort. The Baskerville case, even years later, sometimes haunted his dreams--watching a man be blown to bits in a minefield wasn’t something he could easily forget. It was a different matter when he personally killed. He had needed to perform that unpleasant task a handful of times during the years spent dismantling Moriarty’s network, and though he never quite got used to it, it at least became tolerable. He could sleep at night. He could live with his actions.

“You killed when necessary,” he said softly. “I understand that. I’ve done it myself. But there is no necessity here, Victor. This crime was senseless. It was cold-blooded _murder_. It couldn’t have been committed by you.”

There was a long pause. Finally, Victor inclined his head. 

“I appreciate your trust,” he said softly. “Look, Tim’s a good kid who watched his brother die. Worse than that, the killer’s still out there, and I don’t think he’s finished with this family yet. He got interrupted that night. We need to figure out who might be doing this before it’s too late for Tim, too.”

“This is true,” Sherlock allowed. “But that’s not actually my most immediate concern right now.”

Victor stared at him, uncomprehending. 

“Then what is?” he demanded. Sherlock fixed him with a level gaze.

“You are,” he said simply. It only took a moment for Victor to understand.

“Lestrade’s only given me a reprieve,” he said. “How long?”

“Twenty-four hours.”

Victor nodded to himself, looking unfazed. “That’s not a lot of time.”

“So rather than try to prove who the real murderer is, let’s focus on trying to prove why you _aren’t_ him. To me, that seems simpler. And faster.”

“I’d rather you focus on finding out who did this to Anthony and Stephen,” Victor said, “if it’s all the same to you.”

“It’s not,” Sherlock said shortly. “I’m going to prove to them that it wasn’t you, and _then_ I will find your killer. Now, take me through the story once again.”

Victor liked to pace when he talked. He could never sit in one place for very long, that much Sherlock remembered from university, and it was somewhat heartening to see that some things truly never changed. Victor paced the length of the main room, from the windows to the door, talking more with his hands than with his mouth as he gestured to emphasize each aspect of the tale. 

His story didn’t change, as Sherlock knew it wouldn’t - but still, it was good to have that confirmation. 

“Again,” he said when Victor came to the end. Victor, who knew how Sherlock’s mind worked, didn’t question it, and obligingly told the story again for the third time that day.

But about halfway through, Sherlock stopped paying attention to Victor’s words. They became a steady buzz in the back of his mind, a comforting hum, and he was drawn instead to Victor’s movements. He’d always had an easy gait, and Sherlock had known him long after the awkward period of growth that almost all teenagers go through, when their limbs are too long for their bodies and their movements are clumsy. Victor was always sure of himself and his movements.

Except that there was something just slightly off about him now. It hadn’t fully registered with Sherlock until now, but it was as though Victor was holding something back. His movements seemed to be carefully controlled, as though he was favouring something, and it took Sherlock several moments too long to realise what was happening. 

Victor no longer had a full range of motion in his right arm.

“Stop,” Sherlock ordered.

Victor ground to a halt.

“What is it?” he asked after several tense seconds of silence. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. He had _seen_ it - 

“How did you get the gun away from the killer?” he asked. He made for the kitchen; Victor followed. 

“I kicked it out of his hand,” Victor answered.

“And did you touch it afterwards?” Sherlock started to sort through the file he had brought home from the Yard. 

“I did, yeah,” Victor said, frowning. “I wasn’t thinking, and I picked it up once he fled. That’s why my fingerprints are on it.”

Sherlock turned around and grabbed his gun off the table. He handed it to Victor and said, “Shoot the wall.”

Victor took the gun with his right hand, but he transferred it to his left. He turned the weapon around so he was grasping it properly and brought it up to shoulder height. He fired two quick shots into the wall in the main room, and then dropped his arm.

“What was that about?” he asked, handing the gun back to Sherlock.

“You injured your arm some years back,” Sherlock said. “Your right arm.”

Victor’s jaw clenched, and Sherlock felt an unexpected pang. Victor was an accomplished sportsman; no doubt the injury curtailed his activities, if not stopped them completely. Instead of answering, he bent his arm at the elbow and raised it. He couldn’t lift it past the middle of his chest. 

“Rotator cuff injury,” Victor explained, and Sherlock nodded.

“Stephen Wright was shot from shoulder height,” Sherlock told him, “by a _right-handed_ gunman. Now, you’re right-handed, yes, but you can no longer shoot with that arm. At least, not at shoulder-height. There’s no way the bullet came from you; if you had fired with your right hand, the bullet would have needed to be angled upward in order to go through his chest the way that it did. But he was shot dead-on. Which means that you couldn’t have done it.”

“How do you know the gunman was right-handed?” 

“From the way that he punched you. And I know he’s also a right-handed shot from the murder weapon itself.” Sherlock pointed to a photograph on the kitchen table - that of the gun after it had been dusted for fingerprints. “When they tested this for fingerprints, they discovered the impression of a palm and fingers on the side of the gun that indicated that it had been gripped by a right-handed man. You and the killer both touched this gun, only your fingerprints wiped away his own. But you held it in your right hand subconsciously; it’s automatic for you. Had you fired it, though, your left hand would have been on it, not your right.”

“Unbelievable,” Victor breathed. “And you think that will be enough for Lestrade?”

“It’s enough for me,” Sherlock said, reaching for his mobile. “And what’s good enough for me is good enough for him. He trusts me.”

“As he should,” Victor said with a small smile. Sherlock finished typing out his message and sent it. “So what happens now?”

“You’ll be taken off their list of suspects and will probably receive a profuse apology from Lestrade, knowing him,” Sherlock said, failing to suppress an eye roll. Lestrade spent far too much time looking out for other people and none of it watching out for himself. “They will move on to other leads, what few there are… and we will continue investigating on our own.”

Victor gave a brisk nod. “Where do you suggest we start?”

Sherlock considered him for a moment, taking in the dark semi-circles under his eyes and the way his shoulders sagged. Exhaustion was weighing heavily on Victor.

“You’re going to go back to your new flat,” Sherlock said finally, “and you’re going to wait until you hear from me again.”

Victor’s brows furrowed. “Sherlock -”

“You’re no use to me right now, Victor,” Sherlock said. “Look at yourself. You haven’t slept in at least forty-eight hours, among other things. How can you expect to be useful to this case when you can’t even think straight? I need your mind at its best, because you’re the most reliable witness we have. Go home. Get some rest. Start sorting out your new life. Until that happens, you’re only going to be distracted.”

Victor gave a slow nod. 

“Right, yeah,” he said, raking his fingers through his hair. “Christ. _Home_. I can’t say I’m used to that, yet.”

He crossed the distance between them and, before Sherlock had a chance to react, engulfed him in a tight hug.

“It’s good to see you,” Victor said gruffly. “I mean that.”

Sherlock spent a moment debating what to do with his hands before settling them lightly on Victor’s back. And then he sank into the embrace, looping his arms loosely around Victor and hugging him back. The words he wanted to say - _needed_ to say - got caught in his throat, and in lieu of speech he merely pressed his face into Victor’s shoulder and breathed. Victor smelled of cotton and sweat, and Sherlock suppressed a shudder. Sixteen years, and yet there were some things that just didn’t change.

They pulled apart, but didn’t go far. Sherlock kept his hands flat on Victor’s back, and Victor settled his on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Hell of a day,” Victor said in quiet understanding, and Sherlock nodded. “I’m sorry for all the trouble.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Give me your number. I’ll call on you when we’re ready to proceed,” he said. He hesitated. “If you need anything…”

“I know where to find you.” Victor gave him a gentle smile, and Sherlock suddenly didn’t want him to go. 

Victor was the one who finally pulled away. He lifted Sherlock’s mobile from his pocket and typed in his new number. He handed the device back to Sherlock, their fingers brushing as he did so. A jolt shot down Sherlock’s spine, and he blinked. Victor gave him another smile, the sight of which made Sherlock go weak, and left the flat without another word.

\----

Lestrade accepted Sherlock’s analysis with relatively little fuss.

“Tell Victor we’d like to get permission to look at his medical records, at least the ones pertaining to that injury,” Lestrade told him the next afternoon. “And I want a word with his doctors. We need to verify that he couldn’t have fired those shots with his right hand given the nature of his injury. Got it?”

Sherlock made note of it on a piece of scrap paper. “Anything else?”

“That’ll do for now. We’re going to be starting from scratch over here,” he said with a heavy sigh. “So the moment you have anything, I’d appreciate you sharing.”

But John was of no use that day, as he and Mary had months ago decided that this would be the day they would get together to discuss final plans for the wedding. There were absolutely no interruptions allowed, no matter how pressing the case. 

“Sherlock Holmes, I don’t care if the apocalypse is nigh,” John said when he finally picked up his mobile the fifth time Sherlock had tried to call. “I am _not_ working on a case today.”

John rang off, and Sherlock spent a few moments staring at the phone in his hand. He could always - but no. That would be ridiculous. He’d never agree to it, and he was probably still asleep - 

Sherlock sighed and, unable to help himself, dialed Victor’s number.

The call went to the answerphone after four rings, and Sherlock didn’t want to leave a message. He hung up and tapped the mobile against his chin. Victor could have gone to any number of places. Now that he was back in London and starting a new life here, he would have to do a number of tedious things to get properly settled. He’d have to update his driving license, for one, and register his new address. He could also be unpacking - though, knowing Victor, he’d put that off as long as possible - or visiting his father out in Norfolk. 

Those were all things Victor _should_ be doing. But if Sherlock had learned anything about his friend during their brief association, he knew that Victor shirked the tedious banalities of day-to-day existence in favour of - well, anything else. 

Sherlock ran through a mental list of Victor’s favorite locations in London. He had lived here for three years after university, and every time he came to visit Sherlock at Cambridge it seemed he brought with him a story of a new location he had visited. He was never one for sitting still, and was rarely content with routine. 

But Victor also had several locations that were old favourites of his, and he could visit them over and over without growing bored. There were only a handful of museums and parks that carried this distinction, and given the fact that Victor hadn’t been back in the country for very long, Sherlock had a feeling he knew where to start looking for his friend.

Sherlock threw on a ball cap and leather jacket - while not the most imaginative disguise, it was miles away from his Belstaff coat and the deerstalker the press was used to seeing him wear. It would be enough, Sherlock hoped, to allow him to slip undetected through daytime London. He then made his way over to South Kensington, and the Natural History Museum. 

It wasn’t a guarantee that Victor would be here, but luck, for once, was on Sherlock’s side. Twenty minutes after his arrival at the museum, he came upon Victor in the marine invertebrates gallery. 

“Did you know,” Sherlock said, coming to stand at Victor’s side, “that the vampire squid illuminates the darkness with its own organs?”

“I do, actually,” Victor said calmly, as though Sherlock had always been at his side. He smiled and pointed at the sign. “Because it says so right there.”

“Ah. Well, it’s good to see they got something right.”

“They’ve got a lot right here, I’m willing to wager.” Victor turned to look at him, that pleased smile still on his face. “What are you doing here?”

“You weren’t answering your mobile.”

“So you tracked me down to the museum?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I knew that if you weren’t at your flat, there were only a handful of places you _would_ be. Given the fact that you’ve been abroad for over a decade, it wasn’t too difficult to reach the conclusion that you were… _sight-seeing_.”

“And why seek me out?”

“Sixteen years isn’t reason enough?”

He hadn’t meant for it to sound so bitter, and Victor’s expression flickered for a moment. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply your presence was unwelcome.” He rallied quickly, flashing a smile again. “I’m glad you’re here. You can show me around.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but followed Victor as he started to walk away, moving on to another exhibit. 

“I have been here even fewer times than you,” he pointed out.

“Didn’t you do research here?”

Sherlock snorted. “Yes - eighteen years ago.”

Victor spent an inordinate amount of time examining the life-sized blue whale. Hands tucked into his pockets, he bent at the waist to examine the beast’s underbelly, and occasionally he went onto the tips of his toes in order to properly see parts of the creature’s flesh. He hummed appreciatively at Sherlock’s attempts at interjecting random facts--”Did you know that this is the largest creature on the planet?”--and after a while came to stand beside him. 

“Been ages since I was last in here,” he said at last. They were standing off to the side, and from here could observe the entirety of the hall of mammals. “I’d forgotten how spectacular it all is.”

“I told Lestrade about your injury,” Sherlock said after several moments of companionable silence. He found he was loath to return to the case. He had enjoyed pretending, for a short while, that he and Victor were simply spending a pleasant afternoon together. “He’d like permission to have those medical records, and to speak to your doctors.”

“Of course,” Victor said readily. “Anything else?”

“He has nothing new to report. I think we need to talk to the other players in this case,” Sherlock said. “I want to have a word with Christopher Bowers, and perhaps have a look around the house where the crime occurred.”

“Any idea of what you’ll find there?”

“I won’t know until I see it,” Sherlock said. Victor let out a slow breath.

“All right,” he said. “That’s a good plan. Timothy will be back at school on Monday, so it will just be Bowers and his staff at the house then. He might talk more freely if his son isn’t around.”

“I’ll need to talk to the boy eventually,” Sherlock pointed out. Victor sighed.

“I know. Just - let’s avoid it for now if we can. He’s been through a lot in a short amount of time.”

Normally, Sherlock would have dismissed that as ridiculous and irrelevant. Given the fact that it was Victor making the request, though, that made it harder to ignore. 

“All right,” he relented. “I’ll talk to Bowers first, and we’ll go from there.”

“Thank you,” Victor said gratefully. 

It was then that Sherlock became aware of a interested murmur; a hum of voices he hadn’t been conscious of until now. It was different from the echoing conversations around them, and separate from the excited cries of children. This was something intense and low, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

While Victor was still examining the blue whale, Sherlock cast a furtive glance around the room. He caught sight of three reporters and two photographers, and cursed his luck to hell and back. He had been so _careful_ on the way over, taking great pains to disguise himself and to take a route that was less than direct. Apparently, none of that mattered. 

Victor spoke up before Sherlock could think about what to do. “Is it just me, or -”

“No.” Sherlock could feel a photographer at his back, and angled his body subtly so that he was mostly shielding Victor. It wouldn’t do too much good; Victor was taller than he was and it would be impossible to completely block him from the shot. But it was worth a try. “It’s not just you.”

“Ah, you noticed them, too. Good.” Victor was still gazing casually at the whale, trying to appear as though he hadn’t noticed the photographers. “Now, the question is, are they here for you… or for me?”

“Or for both of us. The only prominent case in the news right now, and the former prime suspect is spotted with the detective working the case.” Sherlock suppressed an eye roll. “Oh, they’re going to have a field day with that one.”

“Not to mention the fact that he’s the world’s most reclusive detective, and has been ever since his return from the dead,” Victor added quietly.

It was a point. Sherlock’s prominent death and unexpected return had shot him to new heights of fame, which he thoroughly detested. It was almost impossible for him to leave the flat alone anymore without drawing attention to himself. His trips to the Yard were typically taken now in the early hours of the morning or very late at night. John had a way of scaring off the press that Sherlock had yet to master, and so when he wasn’t around, Sherlock usually spent his time holed up in Baker Street. His reclusivity had backfired, however, and only served to make him into more of an enigma - which the press loved. 

“I’d rather not stay long enough to find out,” he said in an undertone. “I’m going towards the gents; you go back the way that you came. We’ll meet on the south side of the building in five minutes.”

He didn’t even hear Victor leave, and lost sight of him in the crowd almost instantly.

_ Damn _ , the man was good.

Sherlock spared him a second’s admiration before he made his own escape.

\----

In the end, it turned out that the press went after them both.

“God, they don’t pass up a chance to eviscerate you these days, do they?” John said as he opened up the paper the very next morning. “ _Sherlock Holmes, world-famous private detective, was spotted yesterday in the company of Victor Trevor, who up until recently was the prime suspect in the murder of Anthony Bowers… The pair was seen sharing a private moment at the National History Museum…_ ”

“ _One has to wonder whether perhaps the rumours were right all those years ago; if Sherlock Holmes is nothing more than a cheap trick, and he’s had us fooled all along. Why else would he willingly choose to be in the company of a murder suspect? It appears as though he’s weaving yet another elaborate story; a magic trick that he hopes we all fall for._ Yes, I read it,” Sherlock said snidely. He was sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the room, reading a book.

“And that’s just an obscure tabloid. Have you seen the Daily Mail article? Front page, Sherlock!”

“I know.”

“And the reputable papers aren’t much better, either.”

“I _know_ , John!” Sherlock snapped. “You think I’m completely unaware of the fact that Moriarty killed my reputation? My work? Oh, yes, he was the one who truly died on that rooftop, and I ultimately brought down his network _and_ brought myself back to life, but it doesn’t matter. The damage was done. The doubt he so carefully seeded into everyone’s mind… that’s not something I can truly ever recover from.”

John fell silent, unsure of what to say. Sherlock’s face was dark, and his jaw was set in a hard, defensive line. But at the same time, he looked dejected, and John couldn’t think of anything that might erase that look from his face. He’d known that for years, of course, and had even written about it in a blog post shortly after Sherlock's return. But never before had Sherlock vocalized his bitterness in such a straightforward way.

“Just be more careful next time,” John said finally, setting the paper aside. Sherlock snorted. “So. You and Victor.”

“Oh, God.”

“Seriously, now. What the hell, Sherlock? He was your friend at university--and after--and that’s not worth mentioning?”

“I didn’t realise that our friendship was predicated upon me telling you every detail of my life history,” Sherlock said waspishly. 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” John sighed. “I’m just curious, is all. You never mentioned him once, not even in passing, but you two seem pretty… close.”

Sherlock was staring at the book he had open in his lap, but now he wasn’t even keeping up the pretext of reading. His eyes were still; his gaze, far away. 

“I never mentioned him because we haven’t spoken,” he said finally, flatly. “Until I walked into that interrogation room the other day, I had no idea he was even back in the country. Victor walked away from his life sixteen years ago, and we haven’t spoken since. Until this case.”

A thick silence followed. Sherlock looked uncomfortable at having revealed so much about his personal life while John wrestled with a sudden surge of anger. Victor had seemed so cheerful, so _amiable_ , and John hadn’t for a moment suspected that he had hurt Sherlock so badly. He wondered if even Victor realised it. 

“I had no idea. What _happened_?” John asked finally.

“Victor’s three years older than I am,” Sherlock said. He turned a page in his book, still pretending to read, and while John wasn’t fooled, he also didn’t say anything. “We met at university during my first year there. Victor graduated that spring and joined the Met immediately after.”

“You kept in contact, though,” John said. Sherlock nodded, still not looking up from his book.

“He was the only person I found even remotely tolerable at Cambridge. He was the only person I associated with, apart from Mycroft, who could match my level of intellect. Things were… less dull when he was around. But I found distractions from tedium in cocaine, and Victor found his distractions in an unquenchable wanderlust. He quickly grew bored with the Met; bored with the routine. There also were - family issues. One day, Victor simply vanished. I never heard from him - until this case, that is.”

“So you didn’t know he’d gone to work for the Bowers.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. And that was very like Victor. He never liked being tied down to a place, and he never felt that he was accountable to another person.”

He swallowed visibly and added, “At least… not until the Bowers family came along, I suppose. Maybe that - changed him.”

John cleared his throat uncomfortably. 

“I take it you two were - er - together?”

Sherlock actually looked confused for a moment.

“What? No. Don’t be absurd.”

John held up a placating hand. “Sorry. Um. Well, did you ever look for him?”

Sherlock shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Not actively. He didn’t want to be found, and - at the time - I didn’t care. All that mattered to me was the next distraction; the next puzzle.”

John licked dry lips. “And now he’s back.”

Sherlock turned a page in his book.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Now he’s back.”

“So how are we feeling about that?”

Sherlock didn’t answer

\----

John left an hour later to meet Mary for dinner. When he had gone, Sherlock picked up the discarded tabloid and thumbed to the story. The photograph that accompanied it was almost larger than the article itself. It must have been from the moment before Sherlock had realised he and Victor were being watched, for their expressions were both unguarded. Victor was gazing up at the whale, his arm extended as he pointed to something Sherlock could no longer remember, a tiny half-smile on his face. But Sherlock’s attention in the photograph wasn’t on where Victor was pointing, but was rather on Victor himself.

Sherlock didn’t participate in interpersonal relationships if he could help it, and he had always known that he didn’t feel emotion the way that other humans did, but even he could recognise the affection on the face of his photographic counterpart. He was gazing at Victor, partly in wonder and mostly with a gentle fondness. It was frightening how plainly affection was written on his face, there for all to see. 

Sherlock’s mobile rang then, its shrill cry cutting through his thoughts, and he answered it without looking at the screen.

“Holmes,” he said briskly.

“It’s me.” Victor sounded tired, and Sherlock’s heart constricted. “Did you see -”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s hand tightened reflexively on his mobile. “I - didn’t anticipate them bringing you into it so much. My apologies. I shouldn’t have -”

“If you say that you shouldn’t have come, I’m going to reach through this phone and strangle you,” Victor said. He gave a bark of a laugh. “God, Sherlock, I don’t care about the press. I really don’t. I’m glad you were there. It’s been too long.”

Sherlock swallowed. “It’s probably going to get worse before it gets better.”

“I know.”

“Is there anything…” Sherlock trailed off.

“Is there anything the press might dig up on me from the past sixteen years?” Victor finished for him. “If there was, do you think Christopher Bowers would have kept me employed for as long as he did? One whiff of something unsavoury and I’d have been kicked out of his employ long ago.”

“Right,” Sherlock said. “Good. Still, we need to wrap this up - the sooner, the better. That’s probably the only effective way of shutting the lot of them up.”

“If I’ve caused you any extra trouble -”

“No,” Sherlock said sharply. And then, softer, “No, you’ve not done a thing wrong. They would have gone after me anyway. Your only crime was being in my presence, so you got dragged into it, too. I’m sorry.”

“Does this happen a lot?”

Sherlock gave a short, bitter laugh.

“You truly haven’t kept up with the news from home, have you?” he asked. And then he realised that must have sounded harsh. “I’m sorry. You can’t have been expected to know. Yes, this happens to me frequently.”

“Because of what Moriarty did?” There was abject sorrow in Victor’s voice, and Sherlock winced. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry. I know what the work means to you.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said shortly.

“Is that why you took this case?” Victor asked, and Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to answer that. “Sherlock.”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me, Daniel, it doesn’t work.” 

Sherlock winced at Victor’s absent-minded use of his given name. Apart from Mycroft, he was the only person alive anymore who knew it. “I took the case because it was interesting.”

“And because it’s a high-profile case. You bring this case to a satisfactory and quick conclusion, and you’ll finally start to restore some of your public image.”

“And if I had turned it down, you’d have disappeared without warning for another sixteen years,” Sherlock snapped. There was deadly silence over the phone line for several seconds, and if it hadn’t been for Victor’s sigh, Sherlock would have assumed that he had hung up.

“So,” Victor said, breaking the tense silence first, “you wanted to visit the scene of the crime tomorrow. I was actually calling about that. What’s the plan?”

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to steer his attention back to the case. 

“I’ll pick you up first thing in the morning,” Sherlock told him. “We’ll go have a word with Bowers and have a look around the house.”

“John, too?” 

“Yes. And Lestrade. He’s already spoken to all the family and employees on the estate, but his presence might prove useful. Give me your address.”

Victor did, and Sherlock scrawled it on a piece of paper. 

“See you in the morning,” Victor said, and Sherlock was quiet for several seconds. He tried to think of another topic that might keep Victor on the phone for longer, but he couldn’t think of anything more substantial than _Don’t go._

“I’ll see you then,” he said finally. 

Sherlock stared at the phone for several seconds after Victor rang off, until finally the display went dark and Victor’s name disappeared. He swallowed hard and set the phone aside. The flat was quiet; cold and empty. Lifeless. Sherlock glanced at the display he had started over the fireplace, the one pertaining to the Bowers case. He had started to hang photographs and notes, much like he did with his other cases, but the sight of them hanging there didn’t fill him with anticipation or excitement. The case was interesting, to be sure, but Sherlock’s mind was muddled. His mind was always muddled; always in a perpetual fog. It had been that way since his return, and for five years he had been battling despair and emptiness. It made it difficult to function; it was even harder to think.

He shook his head and moved over to the liquor cabinet. John wasn’t around to disapprove tonight, and Sherlock needed the drinks. One wasn’t enough to clear his mind anymore. It was usually two or three before the haze started to lift and he could make connections again. He needed to be careful, though - five or six usually put a stop to his thought processes altogether and sent him tumbling towards a strange, alcohol-fueled sleep.

Sherlock made himself the first drink of the evening, settled on the sofa, and contemplated the case.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock arrived at Victor’s new flat at seven the next morning. This was half an hour earlier than Victor had expected, and it took him ten minutes to finish pulling himself together.

“I _did_ say first thing,” Sherlock muttered when Victor finally made it down to the idling car. 

“We have very different definitions of what that means, then,” Victor said, rolling his eyes. “Morning, John.”

“Victor,” John greeted, polite but far from warm. Victor couldn’t fault him for it, as he wasn’t sure how he felt about John in return.

It was an hour’s drive to Kent, and the ride was spent mostly in silence. John’s mind was clearly on his upcoming wedding, which Sherlock had no desire to talk about, and Victor had nothing he wanted to say in front of John. They dispensed with small talk after about ten minutes, and the radio filled the rest of the silence.

Eventually, John fell asleep, his arms crossed over his chest and his head resting against the window. Victor leaned forward and touched the back of Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Remember the last time we made this drive?” he asked in an undertone. Sherlock took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot Victor a weak smile.

“I was just thinking about that,” he admitted. They had gone to Dover together shortly after Victor’s graduation from university. “I rather enjoyed that trip.”

Victor squeezed his arm, smiling. “So did I. We should do it again sometime.”

Sherlock returned his full attention to the road, but not before Victor caught a glimpse of the first genuine, unguarded smile he had seen on Sherlock’s face in sixteen years.

Carlisle House was a massive home that sat at the end of a winding, graveled drive. It had been in the Bowers family since the early part of the twentieth century. Up until two months ago, it had been uninhabited for almost twenty years. 

“The house was built in 1825,” Victor said as Sherlock pulled up to the front gate and gave his name to the guard on duty. “But only the outside facade is original. The entire house was gutted and renovated about thirty years ago. It’s very modern on the inside.”

“And Christopher Bowers still plans on living here?” John asked as they pulled up to the front of the house and got out of the car. Victor gave a slow nod.

“Yeah.” He gazed up at the ivy-covered walls. “God knows why.”

Lestrade had beat them to the home, and they found him chatting with Christopher Bowers in the main room. He got to his feet when he noticed the three of them enter, and Bowers followed suit. 

“Was wondering when you’d show up,” he said to Sherlock. “Mr Bowers, this is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. And - well, you already know…”

“Victor,” Bowers greeted warmly after shaking Sherlock’s and John’s hands. Victor offered his own, and Bowers clasped it between both his hands. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Victor said with a brisk nod, and Bowers didn’t probe further. 

“What do you recall of the night your son was murdered?” Sherlock asked without preamble. Bowers lifted an eyebrow at him, and then turned to Lestrade.

“You were right about this one,” he said. He took a seat on one of the sofas. Everyone else followed suit, except Sherlock, who started to pace the room. “I was asleep when the crime occurred, Mr Holmes. And when the house was locked down, I wasn’t allowed to leave my room. I didn’t see or hear anything unusual. I only found out about Anthony after the lockdown had been lifted.”

“Sorry,” John broke in, “lockdown?”

Bowers nodded.

“It’s standard procedure. Whenever there is suspicious activity on the property, the house goes into what we call lockdown. We shut the gates at the head of the drive, lock all the doors and windows, seal off the wings from one another… you get the idea. It’s one of the reasons why this house was renovated so recently. We wanted to update its security system.”

“Have you had to go into lockdown often?” Lestrade asked. Bowers shook his head.

“Not once since our return to England. Apart from that night, of course,” he said. “And never during our visits here on holiday. Once in a while, it happened whilst I was serving as ambassador, but that was a different estate - and in a different country.”

Sherlock quizzed him for a while longer about the events of that night, but Bowers’ memories were of even less use than Victor’s own, it seemed. Victor could sense that Sherlock was quickly growing frustrated, and eventually he gave up entirely.

“I’m going to have a look around,” he announced abruptly, and he swept from the room before anyone could respond.

“Yes,” John said finally into the silence that followed. “He’s always like that.”

Christopher Bowers got to his feet and extended a hand to Lestrade, who took it.

“I don’t know what’s got the Yard so interested in this case,” he said as he shook Lestrade’s hand, “but I’m terribly… terribly grateful. I know it’s in good hands. You’re welcome to have a look around as well. Oh, Victor - a word, if you would.”

Bowers gave them all one last nod and left the room. Victor followed.

“How have you been?” Bowers asked as soon as they were within the shelter of one of the many corridors that branched off of the main room. This one led them to the south wing of the house.

“Fine,” Victor answered automatically. Bowers cast him a sidelong glance.

“This isn’t a test. It was an honest question.”

“I’m,” Victor thought for a moment, “coping, I suppose.”

“As are we all,” Bowers said quietly. “The flat is to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, thank you.” 

“I’m sorry for all the…” Bowers waved a hand vaguely through the air. “You were one of the best guards this family has ever had, Victor. Please don’t think that I made my decision lightly.”

“I don’t,” Victor said firmly. He had already known that Bowers valued his skills - and the fact that he had bonded so well with Timothy. It became apparent close to seven years ago, when a car accident had permanently damaged his right arm. He’d eventually learned to be a damn good shot using only his left, but the fact remained that he was no longer at his peak, and never would be again. 

Bowers had kept him on anyway, and Victor would forever be grateful for that.

“I never got a chance to say how sorry…” Victor trailed off awkwardly. Bowers wasn’t one for great displays of emotion, and Victor wasn’t good at vocalizing his own. 

“Thank you,” Bowers said, gently but firmly bringing the subject to a close. 

“I assume you’ve spoken with the Yard about anyone who might have had a motive to commit this crime?”

Bowers nodded. “I gave that Lestrade fellow a list of names days ago.”

They walked along in silence for a while.

“Do you think they’ll figure out who did this?” Bowers asked at last. Victor nodded.

“Yes. I have no doubt about that.”

Bowers nodded to himself, but Victor’s assurances didn’t appear to offer him any kind of relief. If anything, his brows knit together further, and his mouth disappeared into a thin line. 

“Timothy misses you,” he said finally as they rounded a corner and started down another corridor. 

“And I miss him,” Victor admitted quietly. “But letting me go was necessary, sir. I understand that.”

Bowers huffed. “Victor, do stop calling me _sir_.”

“Yes, s -” Victor stopped himself. “Sorry. It’s a habit. Fourteen years…”

He trailed off. Bowers paused and turned to him.

“He’s upstairs,” he said quietly. “In the library. You should go and say hello.”

“Timothy is?” Victor frowned. “We thought he’d be at school today.”

Bowers shook his head sadly. “He wasn’t feeling well.”

“Christopher -”

Bowers held up a hand. “I know, I know. He’s not actually ill, I’m aware of that. But he did just lose his brother. I’m certain he isn’t feeling well.”

Bowers’ face shadowed, and he added, “And frankly, neither am I. Go on, Victor. He could use a familiar face.”

 

The library was a generous name for the room that had become Timothy’s refuge since the family returned to England. In reality, the library was simply a small room on the topmost floor of the south wing. There was a small fireplace and two armchairs stuffed into the confined space, and three of the four walls had built-in floor-to-ceiling shelves that were stuffed with books. The fourth wall was a large window that looked out onto the back lawn of the house.

Timothy was sitting in one of the wing-backed chairs, cross-legged, a book open on his lap. He wasn’t reading, but rather his gaze had been drawn to the window. He was staring sightlessly out at the clear blue day, and he didn’t hear Victor open the door. 

For a moment, Victor froze, unsure of how to announce himself. He had only been gone for a short time, but given all that had happened in the past week, it felt as though he hadn’t seen Timothy in ages.

He eventually settled for rapping lightly on the doorframe with his knuckles, and Timothy looked around.

“Hey,” Victor said quietly, giving a tentative smile. 

Timothy stared at him blankly for a moment. He had obviously been getting very little sleep, if he was getting any at all, and his eyelids appeared bruised with exhaustion. His blue eyes were bloodshot, and his dirty-blond hair lay limply across his forehead.

“Hey,” he said finally, and his voice cracked. He blinked several times, as though Victor might disappear before his eyes. 

Victor stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him. Timothy closed his book and set it aside, and then he got up from his chair. 

It wasn’t possible for Timothy to have grown in the week since they’d last seen each other, and Victor _knew_ that. But still, as the boy approached him, he couldn’t help but wonder if Timothy had undergone another growth spurt. He came up to Victor’s shoulder - which, given the fact that Victor was taller than even Sherlock, was saying something. 

Victor swallowed and put a hand on Timothy’s shoulder.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly. Timothy nodded.

“Yeah,” he whispered. He turned his head so that Victor could see the yellowing bruise along his jaw - the only physical mark he had on him from that night. Victor brushed his fingers over the bruise.

“That’s not quite what I meant,” he said gently. 

“They think you did it,” Timothy said quietly. “The police, I mean. They won’t listen to me when I tell them what I saw.”

“It was dark, Tim, and you saw some awful things that night,” Victor said. “They’re just doing their jobs. Eye-witness accounts are notoriously unreliable. They had to follow the evidence, not your word.”

“And I’m a child,” Timothy grumbled. Victor gave him a sad smile.

“I’m afraid so.” 

Timothy shrugged, his face shadowing. He glanced back at the window.

“You’re not here to see me,” he said finally. He nodded at the yard beyond. “Who’s your friend?”

Victor went over to the window. Two storeys below, Sherlock was slinking through the garden, ducking behind shrubbery and scaling low walls like a cat. 

“Don’t tell me you don’t recognise the Great Detective,” Victor said dryly.  He knew that two volumes of John Watson’s collected stories sat on Timothy’s bookcase, and that years ago Anthony used to read them to his younger brother. 

Timothy’s eyes grew wide. 

“What’s _he_ doing here?” he asked incredulously.

“He’s been brought in on your brother’s case,” Victor said gently. “He’s here to help, Tim.”

“And you came with him?” Timothy asked. He looked back out the window. “How do you know him?”

“We went to university together,” Victor said. “He is - _was_ my best friend.”

Timothy nodded slowly to himself, and then his face darkened.

“So that’s it, then?” he said stiffly. “You’re here ‘cause of him, yeah? Otherwise you never would have come back.”

“I couldn’t,” Victor said quietly. “I _can’t_ , Tim. Your dad -”

“ - is an idiot.”

“ - only wants what’s best for you,” Victor finished firmly. “We always knew this day would come. I wasn’t going to be able to stay with you forever. It just happened a little sooner than we expected. Your dad’s hand was forced.”

Timothy scowled at the floor.

“I hate them,” he said angrily. “Those new… _bodyguards_. They’re stupid.”

“Tim.”

“They _are_ ,” he said heatedly. “God, I gave two of them the slip yesterday and they didn’t notice for an hour! And they’re not - they don’t talk to me. They’re not nice. They’re not _you_.”

He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and blew out a harsh breath through his teeth. “Am I gonna see you again?”

Victor opened and closed his mouth several times.

“I don’t know, Tim,” he said finally. “I hope so. Maybe - maybe when this is all over. I just don’t think it’s a good idea right now -”

“Bullshit.”

“Timothy.”

A muscle tensed in Timothy’s jaw. 

“I just want you to stay,” he muttered. “I don’t - I don’t know any of these new bodyguards and Dad’s never home and I -”

He stopped and swallowed hard. Victor had to resist the urge to reach for him.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m so damn sorry, Tim. I wish… I wish I could have done more.”

“It was good, though, yeah?” Timothy asked weakly. Victor brushed his knuckles lightly against the boy’s jaw.

“Best fourteen years of my life,” he said quietly. “I mean that. You watch out for yourself, all right? Be good.”

Timothy snorted. “And eat all my vegetables, right?”

Victor laughed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Eat your vegetables, go to bed on time, and no dating until you’re at least thirty. Got it?”

Timothy hugged him, and Victor froze. This new and unprecedented. Timothy had always been withdrawn as a child, partly because it was his nature and mostly because it was a defense mechanism, and he didn’t easily show affection. Victor, on the other hand, had never been allowed to interact with his charge on such a personal basis. He was there to protect Timothy’s life and nothing more. But over the years, rules had been bent and instances of affection had slipped through the cracks, and the fact remained that, although Victor was only his bodyguard, he had seen Timothy through more than his nannies and parents combined. 

He wrapped his arms loosely around Timothy’s shoulders, holding the boy to him, and after a moment Timothy drew away.

“You’ll be careful?” Victor asked, and Timothy nodded. “And if you ever need anything, you call, okay?”

“Yeah,” Timothy said unconvincingly. Victor ruffled his hair.

“Good. Take care, sport.”

“ _Victor!_ ”

Sherlock’s voice floated impatiently down the corridor. Victor, surprising even himself, swept Timothy into one final, bone-crushing hug, whispered, “I’ll see you later,” and left without daring to look back. 

\----

Victor was quiet on the way back to Baker Street. 

He sat in the back of the car, behind John’s seat, and stared sightlessly out the window while John chattered about all he had found during his perusal of Carlisle House. 

“They’ve got this giant bust in the main room - _massive_ thing - and it looks like…”

Sherlock glanced in the mirror for the second time in as many minutes. Victor had his elbow propped on his knee and was resting his chin on his fist as he stared out of the window. His other hand was tapping out a senseless rhythm on his thigh. He wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to John’s words - or to the world around him. He looked inexplicably far away. 

“Sherlock, car!”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped back to the road and he quickly corrected the vehicle in order to avoid hitting another. John let out a slow breath.

“Christ, Sherlock, are you even paying attention?”

“Of course I am,” he said smoothly. He felt John scowl. 

“Well, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it. What did you find at the house?”

“Nothing.”

John stared at him.

“ _Nothing?_ You never find nothing! So you’re telling me that entire trip out there was a waste?”

Sherlock glanced at Victor again.

“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t feel that it was.”

He dropped John off at Mary’s flat. Victor moved up front as soon as John had exited the car and fixed Sherlock with a weary grin.

“Thanks for driving,” he said. “I know how you hate it.”

“We gathered some valuable information today,” Sherlock said. “It was worth the trouble.”

“Did you?” Victor asked absently. “Because I distinctly heard you say you found nothing of use at that house.”

Sherlock was quiet for a long while.

“You were quite attached to that boy,” he said finally. Victor didn’t answer immediately.

“Like John said, we watched those boys grow up,” he said at last. “It’s hard not to get attached.”

Sherlock pulled up to the kerb outside Victor’s new building. Victor hesitated for a moment before getting out.

“That afternoon we had at the museum,” he said abruptly, “that was nice. We should… do it again sometime.”

Sherlock became very aware of the fact that the air in the car was suddenly very thick, and very still. He got the distinct impression that Victor was actually saying more than what he had voiced; that his words carried more meaning than they appeared to on the surface.

He dragged a tongue across dry lips, and then ventured, “All right… but next time, dinner first, I should think.”

Victor rewarded his words with a brilliant grin, and Sherlock relaxed. Right after all, then. Interesting. 

“I look forward to it,” he said, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. “G’night.”

He was gone before Sherlock could think of a proper response.

\----

Days passed without a break in the case.

Sherlock saw very little of John, who was spending more and more of his free time with Mary now that the wedding was mere weeks away. Lestrade called every morning with updates from his team, and Sherlock relayed his own findings in return. There wasn’t much new to discuss. Too much time had passed between when the crime occurred and when Sherlock visited the house. The crime scene had long since been cleaned up, so that had been of no use, and any footprints the suspect might have left behind had long since been trampled by the agents and responding officers. 

“Whoever did this had to have inside information,” Lestrade finally sighed one morning. “It was too smooth, Sherlock. The killer managed to sneak in without anyone noticing, and he shut the place down. There are twenty-five staff members on the estate at any given time, and twenty of them are guards. One man cut twenty trained men and women off from each other for, what, five minutes? Ten?”

“And that was after Victor called it in,” Sherlock said. He clamped the mobile between his shoulder and ear so that he could free both hands to fix his coffee. “The killer had been there long enough prior to that to kill both Anthony Bowers and Stephen Wright.”

“And no one noticed.” Sherlock could almost see Lestrade shaking his head. “How are things on your end? You holding up all right after… everything? I saw those latest articles.”

“I’m not going to fall apart because I got some bad press,” Sherlock said derisively.

“Yeah, well, there’s bad press and there’s having your name dragged through the mud every chance they get,” Lestrade said darkly. “And this Victor character…”

“Yes, I trust him, and yes, he’s telling the truth.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Lestrade said defensively. There was a pause. “Well, okay, yeah, that’s what I was going to say.”

“Why does he have you so concerned?”

“He doesn’t,” Lestrade said. “It’s just - well.”

“Well, what?” Sherlock asked impatiently. He had better things to do right now than wait for Lestrade to formulate a proper sentence. 

“I know it’s not been easy, with John in the process of moving out and all. Victor seems a decent fellow, and you could use someone like him right about now.”

Lestrade said it all in a rush. Silence followed.

“I think you forget, Lestrade,” Sherlock said finally, “that I’ve known him longer than even you.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself. And you’re a massive dick sometimes, but you’re also a fairly good judge of character.” Lestrade sighed. “Right, well. Where do you suggest we go from here?”

Sherlock rubbed his forehead. 

“I want to talk to the boy,” he said, “but I think that had best be saved for a last resort. Adult witnesses are unreliable enough. A child’s mind is even more fantastical.”

“Which leaves Victor.”

Sherlock nodded. “Which leaves Victor.”

“You want to take him back to the scene of the crime?”

“I don’t know how much good that would do, given the fact that it’s unrecognizable now.” Sherlock was about to ring off when a thought occurred to him. “Lestrade, you have access to all of the communications systems on the Bowers estate, correct?”

“Yeah, but there’s not really anything of use on the recordings. Just a lot of chaos.”

“That’s exactly what I need. Make a copy of every recording from that night and get it to me. I’ll call you when I need you again." 


	5. Chapter 5

To say that Victor hadn’t made much progress in unpacking was a severe understatement.

Boxes were stacked neatly throughout his flat, and it was apparent that he was doing nothing more than living off the bare minimum number of items. He had a few chairs out and a sofa that had obviously been either left behind by the previous tenant or donated by the Bowers family. It was a garish thing, not at all in keeping with Victor’s simplistic tastes. 

“Now when I said dinner…” Sherlock trailed off. Victor rolled his eyes.

“Oh, shut it. I’ve only just moved in.”

“And you’ve had nothing to do _but_ unpack,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“Actually, between helping you, getting reacquainted with this city, and visiting my father, I’ve barely had a night to myself in this flat,” Victor said defensively, pointing a wooden spoon in Sherlock’s direction before placing it back in the pot and stirring their pasta. 

“I wondered why you weren’t answering my calls.” Sherlock took a seat on a stool and watched Victor cook. Victor had been neglecting his texts for three days now.

“Yeah, I only just got back. I figured if there were any monumental developments in the case, you’d figure out a way to get in touch with me. Or Mycroft would just helicopter me out of Norfolk.”

“So it was a good trip?” Sherlock asked. He tapped a finger nervously on his thigh. He’d learned long ago to be careful when discussing Victor’s father. “Er - is Gloria still around?”

The temperature in the room dropped considerably and Victor’s face tensed, but his voice was even when he said, “Yes, she’s still in Dad’s life. She went out to stay with her daughter for a few days so I could visit with him.”

“Ah. Good, then.”

They sat on the floor of the main room to eat their meal, with pillows for seats and boxes for tables. Victor chatted for a while about his visit to the family home, which Sherlock didn’t find nearly as tedious as he would have had it been anyone else. He’d known both of Victor’s parents, and had even once spent a month in Norfolk with Victor during their time together at university. 

“Dad wants to see you next time I go,” Victor said. “Fancy taking a trip out there sometime?”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him. “Moving rather quickly, aren’t we? We haven’t even had dinner yet. A _proper_ dinner, mind, not… whatever this is.”

Flirting wasn’t a completely foreign concept to him. He could recognise it in others, and had seen Victor perform it on a number of their male peers at university. It just wasn’t something that he had ever seen any need to use on another person, as it - and what undoubtedly would follow after - had never interested him. Until now.

And clumsy though his line was, it appeared to have worked on Victor, who blinked at him for a moment in astonishment before his face split into a grin.

“Right, then,” he said, chuckling. “I’ll be sure to properly wine and dine you before taking you out to meet the parent.”

“I’m told it’s a logical order of progression.”

The look Victor gave him then was full of meaning that Sherlock couldn’t entirely decipher - though the one facet of his expression that didn’t go unrecognised was the deep affection. Sherlock swallowed, stomach bottoming out. He wasn’t used to seeing such intense emotion on his friend’s face, much less directed at him, and wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“I really did miss you,” Victor said quietly. “It’s good to have… this, again.”

_ Whatever it is,  _ Sherlock added silently, but he couldn’t disagree. Yes, it was good to have this - to have _Victor_ \- again.

They finished eating, and Victor cleared the dishes. While he was washing them in the sink, Sherlock went over to what he could only presume was the liquor cabinet and opened it. 

“Brandy?” he asked. Victor looked surprised.

“You remembered,” he said. 

“I retain important details very well, no matter how many years pass. You should know this by now.” 

Sherlock fixed him his drink but, though he was tempted for a moment, ultimately decided against having one of his own - mostly because one would quickly turn into three if he started now, and he didn’t need Victor’s disapproval on top of John’s.

Smoking, however, he could probably manage without too much of a reprimand from Victor.

“Thought you’d quit,” Victor scolded gently when Sherlock pulled out his lighter.

“I have,” he said. He lifted an eyebrow in question, and Victor nodded to the far end of the main room.

“You can smoke out on the balcony,” he said.

The floor-to-ceiling windows in the main room turned out to double as doors, and they led out onto a decent-sized balcony that overlooked the small park beyond. It was about as secluded as one could get in London, and Sherlock had a sudden, new appreciation for the flat. 

He sat on the floor of the balcony and lit a cigarette while Victor nursed his drink. Darkness had fallen over an hour ago - not because it was particularly late, but because autumn was fast approaching and summer quickly fading. 

They chatted about inconsequential things for a while. Now it was Sherlock’s turn to speak of what Victor had missed, and he filled his friend in on John and Lestrade and his life as a consulting detective. Victor followed John’s blog and books casually, as he’d said, but he also hadn’t yet had a chance to consume all of them. 

“You are unbelievable,” Victor said with a huff of laughter. “And _incredible_. Jesus. The life you’ve made for yourself, Sherlock. Not everyone is so lucky.”

“I don’t know if that’s the word that I would use,” Sherlock said after a beat, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Victor turned to look at him, though what he was able to see in the last vestiges of daylight, Sherlock wasn’t sure. 

“Wouldn’t you?” Victor asked quietly.

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a while. He smoked his cigarette down to the end and then tossed it to the floor of the balcony, where he pressed it beneath his shoe. 

“I didn’t realise what Moriarty was doing to me until it was too late,” he said quietly, a bitter taste in the back of his mouth as he recalled the events of the months leading up to his death. “His creation of Richard Brook, his brainwashing of Kitty Reilly, the fallout in the press and in the minds of the public… I didn’t catch on. And even if I had - even if I had known what was going on from the moment of that first break-in, it wouldn’t have mattered. There was nothing I could have done at that point to change the course of events.”

He longed for a drink; for the sense of detachment and unreality that came with consuming alcohol. Instead, he lit another cigarette and blew the smoke out through his nose, dejection taking root in his mind. 

“When I heard you’d died,” Victor said softly, “I hated you.”

Sherlock remained silent, his foul mood worsening at those words. Victor took a long swallow of his drink.

“And when I discovered what had been going on all along,” he continued quietly, “I couldn’t have been more proud. You sacrificed _everything_ to save your friends. You’re a hero, Sherlock.”

“I don’t want to be,” Sherlock muttered. “I’m not, and I don’t want it. I just want the work. And I don’t really even have that anymore.”

Victor sighed. “That must be hell.”

And that was putting it lightly, in all honesty. Sherlock had been back from the dead for five years now, having spent the time after his pseudo-demise on the run. He’d gone deep undercover to fashion the arrests and captures of the rest of Moriarty’s network. Moriarty, though dead, still exhibited a major threat to society in general and to Sherlock’s friends in particular. Should it ever have been discovered that Sherlock was still living, they would have all been murdered. And Sherlock wasn’t willing to settle for a life without them, so he’d resorted to the only option he had left - destroy the people who were still operating under the instructions of a dead man.

It had taken him a little over a year to accomplish. He’d fought to keep his friends safe, and they had moved on without him - which he had known and expected. Still, that didn’t make it any easier to return home, and he’d felt like an outsider ever since. 

Victor reached over and took Sherlock’s hand in his own. There was at least half a metre between them, enough for another person and then some, and Sherlock knew that this simply wasn’t done. Probably not between friends, at least, and certainly not between acquaintances. 

But they weren’t either of those things, and never really had been. 

“Is that where this came from, then?” Victor asked quietly, turning over Sherlock’s hand to expose the scar that ran from his wrist to his elbow. 

“Among others,” Sherlock said quietly. His arms and torso were littered with scars, and he now had a knee that ached in certain weathers. “Yes.”

Victor loosened his grip on Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock set it on the floor of the balcony once again. But Victor didn’t release him entirely. He let his hand come to rest on top of Sherlock’s, gently, and Sherlock couldn’t think of a reason to ask him to stop. He didn’t _want_ to, in fact. After several moments of careful, slow breathing - just as John had taught him - he even managed to uncurl his fist. He gripped Victor’s hand loosely in return, and Victor swept his thumb across the back of Sherlock’s fingers.

It wasn’t typical, it wasn’t _normal_ , but it felt right. 

“Tell me something,” Sherlock said finally. “Christopher Bowers is one of the most hated men in North America - you said so yourself. Why?”

“You know why,” Victor said. “You’ve researched it, haven’t you?”

“Not yet. I will. I want to hear it from you, first.”

Victor shrugged. He pulled his hand gently from Sherlock’s grip but slid closer. He leaned back on his hands, one arm behind Sherlock’s back. Their thighs pressed together, and Sherlock suppressed a shiver. 

“He wasn’t always so hated, you know,” Victor said after a moment. “There’s a reason he got as far as he did in his career. And even after he… changed, the respect he’d earned over the years was momentum enough to carry him into the ambassadorship.”

“What happened?”

“Elizabeth died.” Victor’s face darkened. “She died, and she took the light out of his life when she went.”

“And how did that make him a hated man?”

Victor lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I can’t presume to know how his mind operates, Sherlock. It’s just… her death changed him overnight. He became withdrawn and angry; he started latching on to unpopular causes. He sought out reasons for her death.”

“I read that she died of cancer.”

Victor nodded. “She did. So he found someone to blame for it. He sued her American doctors for not catching the illness in time; for prescribing treatments that ultimately were fruitless. That wasn’t satisfactory, so he went further. It was ovarian cancer, so he went after her gynecologists, and then all gynecologists, and then eventually anyone who was even remotely related to women’s health was a target. He started to financially back politicians and causes that sought to shut down clinics that catered to women’s health, claiming that they were a danger to millions of women and children. This put him in bed with anti-abortionists, which didn’t go over well.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. Talk about a cause spiraling out of control. 

“What else?” he asked. 

“Bowers became suspicious of, well, everything,” Victor sighed. “Anything and everything was responsible for Elizabeth’s death. He advocated against the use of vaccines, using horribly inaccurate studies that supposedly showed that they were harmful. He tried going after vaccine manufacturers, and tried to relax laws mandating their use in schoolchildren. The press had already latched onto him at this point, because he spewed the most ridiculous rhetoric. He became notorious practically overnight. And then - ”

Victor paused. Sherlock looked at him. 

“What is it?” he asked.

“Like I said, I don’t presume to know how his mind works,” Victor said quietly. “I know he became paranoid, unreasonable… very unlike himself. Before Elizabeth’s death, he never would have thought any of these things…”

“What else did he do?” Sherlock pressed. Victor sighed. 

“He started funding a small group of politicians who were looking to bring back anti-sodomy laws in certain states,” Victor said tightly. “He was operating under the notion that it would reduce sexual promiscuity, which in turn would reduce the spread of illness and death. Those politicians and their cause gained a lot of traction as a result - and he made more enemies than I can count.”

Sherlock blinked at him for a moment. 

“No, I’m not kidding,” Victor said in quiet defeat. “He really did believe that. And that was the final death knell for his reputation. But he’d already accepted the appointment for ambassador at that point, and his name still carried a lot of influence. His behavior was an aberration; I think everyone just assumed - or hoped - that one day he would wake up and come to his senses.”

“He finished out his term as ambassador naturally?”

Victor nodded. “I believe so. I’m not privy to the details, but it seemed as though he finished out the term as planned. I don’t think it was his idea to retire, though. He wanted to continue his diplomatic work. Others saw that he had changed too much, and that he had gone from being revered to being, well, loathed. That was the final blow, I think. His work was everything to him. Elizabeth and work meant the world. But then he lost them both.”

“He seems the type who would go to any length to try to restore his reputation,” Sherlock mused. “Did he make any enemies that way after his return to England?”

Victor gave a slow shrug. He seemed suddenly very tired. 

“I don’t know,” he said in defeat. “Maybe. Add them to the list of people he angered with his controversial opinions and his backing of what ultimately amounted to hate groups.”

Sherlock nodded to himself. The list of people who had a motive for wanting Bowers to suffer seemed endless. 

“Did he know about you?” he asked at long last.

Victor was silent for so long that Sherlock feared that he hadn’t understood the veiled question - or that he flat-out wasn’t going to answer. 

“No,” Victor said finally. “I don’t think so. I was discreet about that part of my life.”

“How discreet?”

“Just because I’m never able to fool you doesn’t mean I’m incapable of hiding things from others,” Victor said, his voice almost harsh. He added, softer, “I never brought men back to the house, if that’s what you mean. I’m not that much of an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot at all,” Sherlock said. “But if it’s possible that he found out about you, having you arrested and charged could be his way of retaliating.”

“Except that it didn’t work,” Victor said. “And that’s a piss-poor way of showing that he disapproves of me. He’s given me a flat, for God’s sake, and enough money to live on until I can find new employment. Christopher’s not trying to frame me, Sherlock .”

Sherlock shook his head, but decided not to pursue it. He had only spoken briefly with Christopher Bowers that day in Carlisle House, but there was something about the former diplomat that nagged at the back of his mind. He couldn’t simply dismiss Bowers as a suspect, even though he had no evidence that the man was even remotely connected to wanting his boys dead. But he tried a different tactic.

“You don’t actually remember that night, do you?”

Victor frowned. “Of course I do. I told you -”

“You told me that Anthony died first. He was shot execution-style. You told me that Stephen Wright died second, and that you heard his body hitting the floor. You told me that you came upon the carnage just in time for the attacker to turn on Timothy, that you were struck, and then that you disarmed the murderer before he could further harm the boy.” Sherlock held his gaze. “You have told me nothing that you couldn’t have pieced together from your own fragmented memory and police reports. But it’s too clinical, Victor. Too sterile. You don’t _actually_ remember that night.”

Victor stared at him for a long while.

“It feels like I do,” he said finally.

“That’s not surprising. Your brain has been trying to make sense of what you _do_ remember for so long that it feels like you’re recalling actual memories,” Sherlock said. “But that’s what our minds do - they create a narrative; a story. They piece together quilts of memories from threads of actual facts, and we believe them, because why should we doubt our own brains?”

He tapped Victor on the forehead.

“I think there’s more in here than you can actually recall right now,” he said quietly. “I think there are crucial details here, but you’ve locked them away - or your brain has, without you even realising it. Defense mechanism.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Victor asked. 

“I want to take you back to the scene of the crime.”

“We were just there, Sherlock,” Victor pointed out. Sherlock shook his head.

“No. I want to take you back to the room where Anthony and Stephen Wright were killed.”

“And what good will that do?” Victor sounded apprehensive, and Sherlock actually regretted making the suggestion at all. He would have made the same request of any witness who saw a crime happen - why should Victor be any different?

“It might trigger a memory,” Sherlock said. “Something that you saw, but which your mind buried as part of a defense mechanism.”

Victor was quiet for a long while.

“All right,” he said finally. “Just - can we wait a few days? I don’t know if I -”

He stopped and blew a harsh breath between his teeth.

“I can’t go back there again so soon,” he said firmly, matter-of-factly. “I need a little more time away from that place. Is there anything else pertaining to the case that you can work on in the meantime?”

Sherlock nodded.

“I can delve deeper into Bowers’ background. If he’s truly as unpopular as you claim, then there are likely a whole slew of candidates who would wish harm upon him or his family.”

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against Victor, who shifted to support him. Again, Sherlock was dimly aware that this was something considered not normal between friends, but it was hardly out of the ordinary for him and Victor. He had a flash of memory then, of Victor laying an arm across the back of Sherlock’s seat as they drove through London in Victor’s old car, the one he had bought immediately after graduation. And there had been summer holidays spent at Victor’s Norfolk estate, where they would pass whole afternoons together under the old elm trees, Sherlock’s head pillowed on one of Victor’s thighs while he read. 

It was normal for them. A different normal. Strange, how easily they slipped back into the old habits. Victor had only been back in Sherlock’s life for two weeks, but sometimes it felt as though no time had passed between now and their last meeting. 

“I should go,” Sherlock heard himself say.

“Right,” Victor said.

But neither of them moved, and they sat there together until well after midnight.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft’s office in central London was large and opulent, which always struck John as at odds with Mycroft’s preference for working behind the scenes. 

“Must be bad, if you’re coming to him this early in the case,” John commented to Sherlock as they trudged up the steps to the front entrance. 

“I need more information about Bowers before we can proceed,” Sherlock said shortly. 

“You mean you can’t deduce it for yourself?” John had meant it to be teasing, but Sherlock’s face remained stony. He followed Sherlock silently into the building and up the three flights of stairs to Mycroft’s office.

“I was wondering when you would show up, little brother,” Mycroft said without looking up from his paperwork as they entered the room. He finished signing his name at the bottom of a form and then flipped to the next page in his stack of papers. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

They sat. John folded his hands and occupied himself with gazing around Mycroft’s office, contemplating the books and strange knick-knacks that lined the shelves. Sherlock slouched in his seat, propping his chin on his fist and tapping out a senseless rhythm on the arm of the chair with his other hand. After ten minutes of silence, Mycroft finally put down his pen and removed his glasses to peer at the two of them.

“You’re here about Christopher Bowers,” he said. Sherlock straightened in his seat and John leaned forward slightly.

“What can you tell us about him?”

“His service record is online, as is the case with every member of the Foreign Office,” Mycroft said. His mouth quirked. “You can even follow him on Twitter, if you like.”

“That’s not what I’m looking for and you know it,” Sherlock said shortly. “Stop wasting my time.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. This was a gesture that John was used to seeing Sherlock make, and seeing Mycroft do it now almost seemed like an exaggerated mimicry. 

“He’s unpopular,” Mycroft said finally, “to say the least. If you’re looking for motive, I could name half a dozen men in this building alone who would have one.”

“Motive isn’t as important as you might think,” Sherlock said. “What matters to me is who _also_ had the means and opportunity to bring that entire house to its knees. This was an elaborate plan, and it almost went off without a hitch. Dozens of people might have had motive, yes, but there are only a handful who could have actually pulled it off.”

Mycroft was quiet for a long while. 

“Maybe the plan was supposed to fail,” he said after a moment. “You do realise that Victor not only had the means and opportunity, but he also had motive.”

“That’s not like him,” Sherlock said flatly.

“He could be directing attention away from himself. Have you considered that he might have put out the distress call over the house radio system in order to make it appear as though someone else had committed the crimes?”

“Of course I’ve considered it,” Sherlock snapped. “And I’ve dismissed that possibility. Someone else _was_ the murderer.”

“Wait a minute,” John stepped in finally, “what motive? You never mentioned that Victor might have had a motive.”

“Mycroft exaggerates,” Sherlock said.

“Victor leads a lifestyle that Christopher Bowers is publicly against,” Mycroft said, which apparently was supposed to be a clarification, though it didn’t really explain things. 

Sherlock got to his feet abruptly. 

“For God’s sake,” he snarled. “Where have you put the files I requested?”

“I was getting around to that, but I’d like to discuss -”

“I don’t care what you have to say anymore. We’re finished here,” Sherlock said shortly. “I’m going to assume you’ve got them downstairs. Come on, John.”

He swept from the room. John got to his feet, and Mycroft rose with him.

“He - er - doesn’t really like it when someone tries to criticize Victor, does he?” John mused.

“I don’t think Sherlock has ever loved anyone as much as he does - _did_ \- Victor,” Mycroft said after a moment. 

John frowned. “He said they weren’t ever together.”

“They weren’t,” Mycroft said. “Good day, John.”

 

John found Sherlock in a small study on the second floor. There were boxes stacked all around the room, and Sherlock had the top off of one already. He had spread several files across the vast and empty desk that sat in the middle of the room.

“All right,” John said with a weary sigh. “Where do you want to start?”

“From the beginning, working backwards,” Sherlock said. 

“Right, okay. August of 2018… Anthony Bowers and his bodyguard are murdered in the middle of the night,” John said, scribbling this down in his notepad. “Working backwards from there, let’s see - Christopher Bowers retired in May, and the family moved to England in June. His term as ambassador started in January of 2014, and he had served in that position for four years prior to his retirement.”

“The Bowers family had been living in the U.S. since 2004, however. Bowers initially moved them there in order to work at the British Consulate-General in New York,” Sherlock went on, opening another file. “They relocated to Washington, D.C., upon his appointment as ambassador.”

“And we know he was in Mumbai in 2004… what was he doing there?”

“He was the British High Commissioner to India from…” Sherlock took a few moments to locate the correct file. “He served in that position from 2000 to 2004.”

“And both of his children were born there - Anthony in 2002 and Timothy in 2004.” John’s head was already starting to spin with dates and locations. “When did he last live in England?”

“He moved abroad in 1999 - almost twenty years ago.” Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck wearily. 

“So whoever wanted to harm this family obviously wasn’t determined enough to do it while they were living abroad - on the other hand, whatever the grievance was, it was bad enough to hang on to for twenty years until the Bowers returned.” John shook his head. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, “it doesn’t.”

John was quiet for a moment.

“Sherlock -”

“Don’t.”

“Listen,” John went on, gently as he could manage, “all of the evidence is pointing at this being an inside job of some kind. It doesn’t make much sense otherwise. Someone who knew the family well - and who knew the house’s security system well - managed to pull this off. And if Victor has a motive on top of it…”

“Yes, thank you for your input,” Sherlock said shortly. His face turned to stone, and he returned to perusing the file he was holding. “You can go now.”

“Sherlock -”

“Leave. Now.”

John tossed aside the file he had been holding.

“You know,” he said tightly, “maybe they’re right about you after all. You aren’t the detective you used to be. You’re slipping.”

He strode from the room, leaving behind a stunned silence in his wake.

\----

Victor accompanied Sherlock and John to Carlisle House again the next afternoon, and Lestrade met them there.

The drive over had been thick and tense this time, and Victor had the distinct impression that Sherlock and John had had a row. They didn’t speak to one another, and barely said a word to Victor apart from automatic pleasantries.

“They cleaned this up rather quickly, didn’t they?” John asked as they surveyed Anthony’s bedroom. It was the first time he’d spoken since saying a terse hello to Victor that morning.

The bedroom had been stripped bare in the two weeks since the crime and scrubbed to within an inch of its life. It smelled now of antiseptic and chemicals, and Victor felt light-headed with the strong stench. 

“Amazing what you can accomplish when you have the press and the Met wrapped around your finger,”  Lestrade said darkly. “Bowers asks us to jump, we ask how high. It’s appalling.”

Victor was the first to step into the room. He took a breath and walked over the threshold, and he was almost disappointed that nothing happened. There was no sudden flashback, no revelation, no… anything. 

It was just a room. He could almost pretend that nothing had ever happened in here.

Almost.

“There was so much blood that night,” he said quietly. He scuffed a spot of the hardwood floor with his shoe. “Look at that. Bled straight through the carpet. They couldn’t quite get it all out.”

There was a small, circular stain on the floor - faded, but its colour was unmistakable. He wondered whether the blood had been Anthony’s or if it was Stephen’s.

He could feel the other three watching him and did his best to ignore them. He walked a slow circuit of the bare room, picturing where the furniture had been and where the bodies laid that night. It seemed inconceivable now. How could such horror have occurred here, and how could he have witnessed it? 

It was mad. 

Victor let out a slow breath and turned to look at Sherlock. He shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “I don’t think this helped. I don’t remember anything else, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded. He stepped into the room and John and Lestrade followed his lead. But while they came to stand by Victor, he strode over to the window and pulled a small device out of his pocket. He set it on the ledge.

“One of the things Christopher Bowers requires is that all communications between his staff be recorded and saved for a period of one year,” he said, mostly for John’s benefit, as Victor and Lestrade already knew this. “His bodyguards are all equipped with radios that they use to communicate with one another. Usually they’re used for logistics. They are particularly useful in a crisis, however. The night of the murder, there was very little chatter between his agents. There was a spike of activity at 2:35 in the morning, when Stephen Wright returned to the house with Anthony. Then everything went quiet… until 3:13. That’s when the first call came in.”

Sherlock pressed a button on the recorder and stepped back. 

_ “This is Trevor.”  _ Victor flinched as the sound of his voice filled the small room, echoing off the bare walls and floor. It was almost painfully loud. _“Everything all right out there?”_

_ “Everything’s quiet,”  _ came the response - Marie Hammond, Victor thought. He couldn’t remember speaking to her, however, and it was hard to distinguish the voice over the staticky recording. _“Something wrong?”_

_ “No, I don’t think so. I heard something. It’s probably just the boys up.” _

“You heard a sound,” Sherlock narrated quietly. “A thud. You didn’t think much of it - but it was still bothersome enough that you called it in, and then got out of bed to check it out. You entered Anthony’s room and saw the two bodies lying on the floor. You were ambushed, and when you regained consciousness -”

_ “Code White! Shut it down, shut everything down! We’ve got an intruder, and he-” _

Victor recognised that as his own voice. The ones that followed were from other agents.

_ “Trevor, what’s happening?” _

_ “Close the gates and lock down the house! We’ve got a Code White -” _

_ “We need people to the east wing, second floor.” _

_ “Is anyone hearing this?” _

For a while, they could make very little sense out of the short exchanges between all the agents, but one thing was clear - confusion was rampant. 

“You went silent after your first call because you had engaged the intruder,” Sherlock said over the din. “And no one came to your aid immediately because somehow the attacker managed to lock down the complex - he sealed off rooms and wings using the security system, effectively locking everyone inside.”

He pressed a button on the device, and the chaos ceased. When he lifted his thumb, there was only static. Until - 

“ _This is Trevor. Is anyone reading this?”_

Victor sounded horribly out of breath, and could be heard drawing great lungfuls of air.

_ “We’ve got two people down. I need - I need assistance. Hell.” _

Finally, someone else’s voice came over the recorder.

_ “Trevor, we’ve got people on the way. What’s going on?” _

There was a tremendous silence.

_ “We’ve got two DOAs,”  _ Victor heard himself manage finally. He was fighting to keep his voice level. _“Anthony and Agent Wright. I’ve got Timothy. He’s - he’s all right. He’s all right. Oh, Christ.”_

Sherlock shut off the recording.

Victor couldn’t seem to keep his hands from shaking. His palms were clammy and he could feel that a thin sheen of cold sweat had broken out across his forehead.

“I didn’t remember that,” he whispered. “I didn’t remember any of those calls -”

“ _Think_ , Victor.” Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders, his grip hard enough to bruise. “ _Think_. You’re remembering now, aren’t you? There were seven minutes between your first call and when agents finally got to you. It was only seven minutes that you were on your own, but it’s coming back, isn’t it? You remember the chaos, the confusion.”

Victor swallowed hard. The room suddenly felt very small, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the small spot of blood remaining on the floor. His palms were wet, though whether it was with sweat or Anthony’s blood he couldn’t tell. 

“I felt Anthony’s neck first,” he heard himself say from some great distance, “and it was so - so wet. Blood everywhere. I couldn’t find a pulse -”

And then something had hit him in the back of the head. Victor raised a hand to the phantom injury, feeling the agony of the original blow. He had then been struck across the face again, and for a few seconds the world went dark. When he came back to himself, he had turned around and taken the murderer by surprise. They’d wrestled on the ground - on the bloodied carpet - until Victor had wrenched the man’s wrist and kicked the gun from his hand. 

But the man had then slammed his elbow into the side of Victor’s head one final time and fled while Victor was dazedly trying to regain his bearings. When Victor had managed to push himself to his knees, he’d discovered that the attacker was gone, and that he’d been lying in a pool of blood that had spilled from Stephen’s head.

And that Timothy had witnessed the whole thing.

“He was sitting in a corner,” Victor said softly. “Just - staring. Didn’t say a word. When I got close enough I saw that he’d been hit on the jaw, but otherwise he was all right.”

“What else?” Sherlock demanded.

“That’s - that’s it, Sherlock. I swear.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s not it,” he said in frustration. “Damn it, Victor, that man was close enough that you could hear him breathing. It was dark, but you still _saw_ him. You grappled with him. There must be something -”

“Cinnamon,” Victor said suddenly. He swallowed back bile and repeated, “Cinnamon. He smelled - like cinnamon. Sickly sweet, almost. And there was something…”

Victor looked at his hands, and then turned them over.

“There was something on the back of his hand,” he said. He touched his left hand, tracing the mark he could only see in a hazy memory. “No - it wasn’t on his hand. Farther up. Just above his wrist, where it could be covered by a sleeve. It was... a cross? No. Looked like a cross.”

“A sword?” Lestrade prompted. “A knife?”

“No,” Victor breathed, the shape solidifying in his memory. “A dagger.”

There were several long beats of silence while they processed this.

“Okay, then.” Lestrade finally spoke, and the three men looked at him. “We’ll start screening the household staff first, then family and friends. We’re looking for someone with the tattoo of a dagger on his hand. And he doesn’t know that you saw it.”

“Check tattoo parlours as well,” Sherlock advised. “I’ll wager that it’s a popular mark, but it will be a start.”

Lestrade arched an eyebrow at him.

“You aren’t coming?”

Sherlock seemed to notice then that he was still gripping Victor by the shoulders. He dropped his hands and stepped away abruptly. 

“We have other things to work on,” he said stiffly. “Call us the moment you find anything.”

He swept from the room. John and Victor followed.

\----

“I don’t know that this is more important than going to help Lestrade,” Victor protested weakly as Sherlock pushed him into a chair in the kitchen. 

They were back at Baker Street. John was upstairs, talking on the phone with Mary. 

“It is,” Sherlock said simply. He shoved a mug of tea in Victor’s hands and then went over to the refrigerator. He took out some leftover pasta from one of John’s dinner dates with Mary and heated it in the microwave. 

“How so?”

“Because you look as though you’re about to fall over, and you’re no use to me if that happens.”

“Thanks.”

Sherlock handed him the plate, put a fork in his hands, and then sat across from him at the table. Victor fixed him with a withering look.

“You’re gonna watch me eat, is that it?”

“Oh, the irony must be _staggering_ ,” Sherlock said dryly, remembering all the times this scene had been reversed at university. “Go on, then.”

Sighing, Victor obliged. And, as Sherlock watched, some colour returned to his cheeks, and his lips went from white to pale pink.

“I need to talk to Timothy,” Sherlock said when he felt Victor had regained enough of his composure.

“No.”

“Victor -”

“Absolutely not.”

“He was there,” Sherlock pointed out with far more patience than he would have exhibited with anyone else. “He might have seen something that the others didn’t think to ask for.”

Victor stared at him for a long moment.

“It’s not as though I could really stop you,” he said finally, which was as close to a _yes_ as Sherlock was going to get. “But so help me, Sherlock, if you subject him to what you put me through today, I will _skin_ you alive.”

Sherlock nodded. A hot rush of guilt flooded his chest at Victor’s words, and he swallowed. 

“I am… sorry for what I had to do today,” he said quietly. Victor looked up at him sharply. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I didn’t realise you would be so affected. I never intended…”

He looked away.

“I hurt you,” he said, “as I have done many times in the past. But you must know - you _must_ know - that I have never once done it intentionally.”

A heavy silence followed. 

“As you perceive me to have done,” Victor said quietly. 

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Victor returned to his meal. “It’s all right. You did what needed to be done.”

When he had finished eating, he pushed aside the plate and reached for the file folder Sherlock had been compiling of information relevant to the case. He spread it out on the table and started to sift through the papers. He had done this several times already over the past few days, and it was unlikely that he would discover anything new for them to work with. But Sherlock recognised that Victor needed this, and so he said nothing.

“Sherlock!”

John was calling him from the landing. Sherlock got up from his seat and went to join him; Victor didn’t acknowledge his departure.

“I’m off to Mary’s,” John said, tugging on his jacket as Sherlock stepped into the stairwell. “But I just wanted to say - look, about the other day…”

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, you did.” Sherlock gave him a wan smile. “Forget it, John.”

“I was wrong about what I said. You’re not slipping.”

Sherlock shook his head. John clapped him on the shoulder and cleared his throat. “Right, well, call me if you find anything, yeah?” 

Sherlock nodded. John looked as if he wanted to say something more, but instead he gave a quick nod and exited the flat. 

Victor was still in the kitchen when Sherlock returned. He had shed his suit jacket, and underneath he was wearing a black t-shirt and a shoulder holster. It fit snugly around his shoulders and back, biting into the hard muscles. Victor, who had always been a sturdy man, had bulked up in the years since they had last seen one another. His t-shirt was just on the verge of being too tight, and Sherlock wasn’t sure he could wrap a hand around Victor’s biceps, they were so thick. And -

\- And he was staring, and Victor had noticed. _Damn_.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Anything?”

Victor shook his head, dropping his gaze again to the papers spread out on the table.

“Nothing,” he sighed. He straightened and rolled a shoulder; it popped audibly. “Listen, if you need to get to bed -”

“I only require four hours of sleep, and you know it.”

Victor snorted. “You only _allow_ yourself four hours; there’s a difference. God, you really haven’t changed, have you?”

“So you keep saying. I’m not sure whether to be insulted or flattered.” Sherlock nodded to the holster. “You, on the other hand, have changed considerably. Are you always armed?”

Victor shrugged and slid out of the holster, which he placed on top of his suit jacket.

“Not always, but often. Bad habit. London’s the safest city I’ve been in in a while. In the U.S., there are almost enough guns to arm every single citizen, all three hundred fucking million of them.” Victor cracked his neck. “I don’t feel right without carrying my weapon anymore. Especially given all that’s happened.”

“You aren’t protecting anyone here.”

Victor’s face darkened.

“I am,” he said quietly, firmly. “Don’t ever think that I’ve given up on Timothy. I’m protecting him the only way I know how, the only way I _can_.”

“The gun won’t help.” Sherlock reached out and tapped his finger against Victor’s forehead. “ _That_ will. You are brilliant, and you’re clever. We need to figure out who’s done this, and for that you need to _think_.”

“It’s all I can think about,” Victor said, sombre. “Believe me, Sherlock, there’s not a moment that passes where I’m not thinking about this. And when I sleep… all I see is that night.”

He shook himself visibly, and then offered up a wan smile.

“Sorry,” he said. “Been a long day. I’ve been looking at these papers for so long, I can see them when I close my eyes. Got a beer?”

Sherlock nodded to the fridge. “John has some.”

“Think he’ll mind?”

“I doubt he’ll even notice.”

Sherlock fixed himself a drink as well, and they retired to the main room. Victor perched on the sofa while Sherlock collapsed fully onto it, sinking back against the cushions and propping his legs on the low table in front of it. They chatted for awhile about the case, though nothing new came from their discussion. They rehashed the old details, all of which Sherlock now knew by heart, and eventually ran out of things to say.

“Want another?” Victor said, getting to his feet. He had finished off his beer, and Sherlock had only a swallow of his own drink left. He knocked it back and handed the empty glass to Victor. “Scotch, neat?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed in agreement. He tipped his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes, folding his hands over his stomach and allowing the warmth of the drink to spread through his body. It loosened his limbs and dulled the static in his brain, and for the first time in days, he relaxed.

Only two things had ever saved him from the crushing tedium--work that kept his mind busy, or substances that dulled his mind and quieted his thoughts.

Well, _three_ things had saved him from the tedium. But Victor had vanished years ago, and with him had gone the temporary peace Sherlock had known during their association.

“Where’d you go?”

Sherlock started, and then blinked up at Victor, who was holding out a glass to him. 

“Sorry,” Victor said apologetically, handing off the scotch and sitting down next to Sherlock with his fresh beer. “Didn’t realise you’d nodded off. You must be exhausted -”

“What did you mean?” Sherlock asked sharply. Victor looked at him, curious.

“Nothing,” he said quietly. “It just… it just looked like you were lost in thought, that’s all. Thinking about anything important?”

“It’s always important.” Sherlock took a long, bitter swallow of the drink. “What happened to you?”

“No more than what I already told you,” he said patiently. “I was restless and stupid, and I didn’t have a purpose.”

“And they gave you one?”

“Yes,” Victor said sharply, and Sherlock quieted momentarily. “Yes, they did. _He_ did.”

“Timothy.”

“Yeah.” Victor took a long swallow of his beer. “You left, too, you know.”

“We’ve already discussed this,” Sherlock said stiffly. Victor shook his head. 

“When I heard you’d died…” Victor trailed off. He gave a huff of disbelieving laughter and dropped his gaze to his drink. “We hadn’t seen each other in a decade and it still hurt like a bitch. I don’t think I truly understood until then what it must have been like when I left all those years ago. What I did to you was horrible.”

“You came back,” Sherlock allowed.

“So did you,” Victor said. He was still perched on the edge of the sofa; he finally looked over his shoulder, back at Sherlock. “The fact of the matter was, Sherlock, that I don’t think you ever needed me half as much as I needed you. And that scared me, so I ran. I found someone who needed _me_ , and he - _they_ \- became my life. They still are. I owe that family everything. But being back here, seeing you…”

Victor trailed off. 

“It’s only made me realise that I still need you,” he said finally. “I’ve always needed you.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. There had been golden afternoons spent in Victor’s flat eighteen, nineteen years ago; afternoons that were warm and endless and pure bliss. There had been afternoons that Sherlock spent splayed out on the ground, mellow with drink and with a cigarette dangling from his fingers, while Victor worked at his desk and an old radio played on in the background.

There had been afternoons filled with peace; afternoons full of a serenity Sherlock hadn’t been able to obtain since.

“And I, you,” Sherlock managed finally.

They stared at one another for an endless moment, Victor’s lips parted in slight surprise while Sherlock fought a sudden prickling behind his eyes.

“I need you,” he went on, his words barely a whisper. “And - God. I’ve _missed_ you, Vic.”

Victor moved so swiftly Sherlock didn’t have time to react. He had barely time to move his head before Victor was upon him, moving too quickly while Sherlock moved too slow, and it wasn’t a kiss so much as it was a collision. Their noses bumped and Sherlock’s lip got caught between Victor’s teeth, and even though he tried to muffle his startled yelp of pain, Victor jerked away from him as though burned.

They sat there for a moment, staring at one another, Sherlock feeling jittery with anticipation while Victor looked… _nervous_.

He had never before seen Victor uncertain about anything.

“Sorry, did I -”

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock said, surprised to find a waver in his voice. He cleared his throat, hoping that would help, but his words were still shaky when he added. “Better the second time.”

Victor let out a slow breath. “You think?”

“Scientist, remember?” Sherlock said, feeling at once bold and foolish. “Repeated experiments can only - can only lead to improvements being made. And replication is an essential component of a successful experiment. If it can be repeated over and over with the same outcome, then it can properly be labeled a -”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” Victor breathed, and then he leaned over and sealed their mouths together. 

Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what to do with his hands, and dimly thought that it was probably appropriate at this juncture to put them on Victor. He had no point of reference and nothing to mimic, as one of Victor’s hands was braced on the back of the sofa while the other still clutched his beer. Sherlock ghosted his hands over the front of Victor’s shirt, fingertips sliding over the smooth fabric. He could feel the warmth of Victor bleeding through the shirt, and even through a layer of fabric his muscles were solid beneath Sherlock’s hands. But after a while, the barrier of the shirt became less tantalizing and more of a nuisance, and Sherlock, plunging into unchartered territory, slipped his hands underneath.

Victor swallowed a whimper the moment Sherlock’s hands came into contact with his flesh--unsuccessfully, because the sound was still audible. Victor’s flesh was warm and his stomach was taut, and the ridges of his muscles leaped under Sherlock’s exploring fingers. They broke for air, and Victor set aside his beer. When he leaned in again, the angle was different and the touch of his lips was more insistent. Sherlock parted his lips, allowing Victor to deepen the kiss, and the initial swipe of Victor’s tongue against his own sent a jolt down his spine. He withdrew his hands from Victor’s torso and curled one around the back of Victor’s neck, holding him close. He wasn’t sure what to do with the other until Victor slid both arms around his waist, pulling him in, and Sherlock had no choice but to brace it against Victor’s shoulder.

And then he realised that he didn’t want to keep that sliver of space between them, didn’t want to keep Victor away at all, and he wrapped his free arm around Victor’s shoulders. His other hand was still tangled in Victor’s hair, and this time Victor didn’t bother to stifle his whimper when Sherlock curled a few strands around his finger and gave a slight tug. 

As predicted, the second kiss had been better than the first, and the third surpassed them both. Within half an hour, Sherlock’s lips were tingling and there was sweat beading down the back of his neck, and he had thoroughly mapped Victor’s mouth. Victor’s incisors were crooked, more so in his lower jaw than his upper, but his upper canines were abnormally sharp while his bottom ones were barely noticeable. Victor had a tendency to talk out of the corner of his mouth when agitated or emphatic, and Sherlock kissed the lines there, feeling the muscles ripple under his lips as Victor tried to speak. He memorized the feel of Victor’s stubble scraping against his mouth and relished in the soft moan that left Victor’s lips when Sherlock took his earlobe between his teeth. 

They broke apart after an age, and Victor, instead of going in for another kiss, drew Sherlock into a loose embrace. He rested the side of his face against Sherlock’s cheek and tried to regain his breath. Sherlock, his own lungs burning, closed his eyes and breathed in Victor’s woodsy aftershave as a way of grounding himself. 

“Case isn’t going to solve itself,” Victor said finally, sounding much more in control of himself than Sherlock felt. He drew away. “I should go.”

“Right,” was all Sherlock managed at first. His head was spinning, and confusion clouded his mind. The only thing he could think to do was rest a hand on Victor’s knee. Victor covered it with his own, seemingly without thinking, and Sherlock wracked his brain for some moments, searching for things he could say that might make Victor stay. They all sounded terribly pedantic, and so he finally settled on, “Call me if you think of anything.”

Victor cracked a wry smile. “What d’you think I’m gonna do, keep it a secret?”

Normally, Sherlock would have at least offered him a weak chuckle in response, but tonight he couldn’t manage even that. He didn’t have the reserves left.

Victor ran the back of his finger down Sherlock’s cheek and then withdrew completely. He pushed himself to his feet and then offered Sherlock a hand up. 

“Call if you find anything before I do.”

 

Sherlock sank back onto the sofa after Victor had left. He passed tentative fingers over his lips, as though he could still feel the touch of Victor’s mouth. He could still taste Victor on his lips and tongue, and the man’s cloying aftershave clung to him like a blanket. Sherlock smelled the mix of earth and pine every time he shifted, and it was increasingly distracting. 

He had never before desired the touch of another. It wasn’t as though he was completely ignorant of the mechanics of the human body, nor was he unfamiliar with the state of arousal. He was human, after all, and male, and his body had needs that he indulged when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to be able to think unless he dealt with them properly. But in those circumstances, he had never indulged with anything other than his hand, and that had always been satisfactory.

So then why had he been about two seconds away from suggesting that they move things to the bedroom?

Sherlock brushed his fingers over the side of his throat, feeling the heat rise from the marks Victor had sucked into his skin. He had very little chance of hiding them beneath the collar of a shirt. John was going to notice first; there was no way Sherlock could hide from him for the three or four days it would take for the bruises to fade. It wasn’t as though he cared what John thought--or what anyone thought, really. But John was going to ask questions, and Sherlock honestly didn’t know what to tell him. 

He and Victor hadn’t been friends at the start. Their first disastrous encounter, the one that began and ended with Victor’s dog taking a chunk out of Sherlock’s ankle, had resulted in nothing but bad feelings all around. Sherlock, at the time, would have been perfectly happy if he never heard from Victor or his dog again--and Victor had felt the same. 

But, for whatever reason, after that initial encounter they kept running into one another. This wasn’t just inexplicable, but it was also downright absurd given the size of their university. The chances of running into the same stranger twice were slim, to say the least. 

Sherlock and Victor met by chance three more times before they started to actually intrigue one another more than they found each other irritating. Victor was the one who reached out first--though his idea of “reaching out” was to break into Sherlock’s rooms in the dead of night to discuss Plato. 

And they had never quite been able to extract themselves from each other in the years that followed. Victor, whose focus during his time at university had shifted from physics to biology to archaeology to information technology, had seen Sherlock as a constant. And Sherlock, who had known from the age of five that he would pursue chemistry, found Victor’s brilliance and lack of focus endlessly interesting. There was always something to talk about with Victor; always something to explore.

But this, this was entirely new, and not at all what he had expected. Victor had flirted shamelessly with everyone and anyone during their time at university, and he had taken more than a few of their male classmates to bed. His interest, however, had never extended to Sherlock, and Sherlock had never wanted it to. But now - things were different.

A different normal.


	7. Chapter 7

John returned to Baker Street late the next evening.

“Have you moved at all since I left?” he asked with a sigh when he opened the door and caught sight of Sherlock. 

“Once or twice.” Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa in his pajamas and dressing gown. He had his laptop open on his stomach and a drink sitting on the low table next to him. It was his third drink of the evening - though John didn’t need to know that - and as a result, he was making significant progress in the paper he had been putting off writing for three weeks now. He had found, in the years since his return, that alcohol had a way of allowing him to push past his mental blocks and actually get work done. He sometimes published articles in scientific journals under the alias Sigerson, because his actual name didn’t carry as much weight nowadays as it had in the past. It was mundane, tedious work, but it paid the bills when his caseload was light - which was always, it seemed.

“How’s the case coming along?” John moved into the kitchen, shedding his jacket as he went and tossing it over the back of a chair. 

“No news,” Sherlock muttered. “Quiet, John, I’m trying to concentrate.”

“No, you’re trying to drink in peace, only I’m not going to let you,” John said. “Come on, you need some food. I bet you haven’t bothered to eat, have you?”

“It’s really not your business,” Sherlock said shortly.

John sighed, stalked over to the sofa, and snatched Sherlock’s laptop off his stomach. He tossed a tin of biscuits down in its place and walked away. Sherlock rolled into a sitting position and got to his feet, tossing aside the tin.

“Stop being a child,” he snarled with great satisfaction, for once able to use it on someone and not hear it directed at him instead. He grabbed his laptop back from John and set it on his desk. “I’ll conduct my life as I see fit. Disapprove all you want, but keep it to yourself.”

But John was staring at him, eyes wide and surprised, and it took Sherlock a moment to figure out why. His hand went automatically to his neck. He’d forgotten about the bruises Victor had sucked into his skin, as he hadn’t looked in a mirror since this morning. The marks had been dark and purple earlier; he could only imagine what they looked like now. Certainly, they hadn’t faded at all in twelve hours.

“Problem?” he asked, glaring defiantly at John.

“I thought you two weren’t together,” John said stiffly. 

“What makes you assume _he_ has anything to do with _this_?” Sherlock asked waspishly.

“Oh, right, because you have _so many_ people in your life right now. He couldn’t possibly have been responsible for that.” John nodded at Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock dropped his hand. 

“Fuck off, John,” he snapped. “What do you care?”

“I just never thought that you would do something so colossally stupid.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but snort. “Really? And what made you think that?”

John looked pained for a moment.

“Because, despite what you seem to believe about yourself,” he said quietly, “you’re not _that_ much of a fuck-up. And that’s actually not what I meant, by the way. It’s just, in this _particular_ instance… can’t you see what he’s doing to you? Are you really so blind?”

“He’s not _doing_ anything to me,” Sherlock said in frustration. “Nothing is happening.”

John lifted an eyebrow at him. 

“Do you even hear yourself?” he said in exasperation. “You remember what he did to you, right? Took off for sixteen years without even a note?”

“That’s not something I’m likely to forget,” Sherlock said tightly. And then he sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. “Leave it, John. I can look out for myself.”

John snorted softly. 

“Yeah, well, when it all comes crashing down around you… you know where to find me.” 

 

Mary came over the next morning to join John for breakfast. 

“Well, hello, stranger,” she greeted warmly when Sherlock ventured out into the kitchen in search of coffee. He had slept late, only because he couldn’t summon the strength to pull himself out of bed, and it was now mid-morning. He was still exhausted - he was _always_ exhausted - but the coffee smelled enticing. Mary got up from her seat and embraced him, planting a kiss on his cheek. 

“Hello, Mary,” Sherlock said quietly, accepting the hug without complaint. He met John’s gaze over her head, and John flashed him a quick smile. He was sitting at the table, already halfway through a cup of tea. Their almost-row from the night before, it seemed, had already been set aside. 

“John’s been telling me about your latest case,” Mary said. She sat down at the table again, across from John. After a  moment’s contemplation, Sherlock joined them. “Well, I mean, it’s been all over the news, but he’s been filling me in on some of what’s been going on behind the scenes. Strange, isn’t it, to run into an old friend like that?”

“I didn’t expect it,” Sherlock said. “But I am glad of it.”

“I can see that,” Mary said, her blue eyes dancing. She smirked and Sherlock flushed, remembering the marks on his neck - which she thankfully didn’t explicitly comment on. “Tell me about him.”

“We met at university,” Sherlock said automatically. “He grew up in Norfolk, attended Eton, and then went to Cambridge. He joined the Met right after university -”

“Stop,” Mary said suddenly, placing a hand on his forearm. “No, Sherlock, tell me _about_ him. What’s he like? I’m _so_ curious.”

She looked at him expectantly, resting her chin on her hand, and Sherlock swallowed. His eyes flicked to John, who lifted an eyebrow at him. 

“He’s…” Sherlock trailed off for a moment. “Full of life. Energetic. The very opposite of me, in most ways. I boxed; he played rugby. I’m a chemist; he couldn’t decide on a course of study. But he’s brilliant, and clever, and I’ve never met anyone who understood me so well.”

“Cheers, mate,” John said dryly. Sherlock shook his head. 

“It’s different with you,” he said. “You were always my guide. You and Lestrade both. But Victor - he _is_ me. We are of one mind, but split into two different bodies. He _knows_ me, John.”

It was quiet for some moments after this. Mary tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and considered Sherlock thoughtfully.

“You sound so fond of him,” she said finally. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about anyone quite like this before.”

“Well, there’s no one quite like Victor,” Sherlock said, and she laughed. 

“Fair enough. You should have him over for dinner sometime. Maybe after the wedding. I’d love to meet him.” She got to her feet, pulling on her coat and reaching for her purse. “Sorry, boys, but I’ve got to go to work.”

She kissed John goodbye, and then laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Chin up, Sherlock,” she said bracingly, giving him a warm smile. “He’s not the first man to ever run away from his problems.”

“And he’d be a fool to run away again,” John said, an edge to his voice. 

Mary snorted.

“Might want to warn him that your best friend comes armed,” she said to Sherlock in a stage whisper. Sherlock met John’s gaze, and John’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he took another sip of his tea, the soft gaze telling Sherlock all he needed to know.

Things weren’t perfect, but they were all right.

Mary patted Sherlock’s shoulder. “Right, I’m off. You two behave today.”

“We always do,” John said dryly, and Sherlock laughed.

It felt good to laugh around John again.

\-----

Victor had unpacked a few more boxes by the time Sherlock next saw him. They met for lunch three days later.

“You have cutlery now,” Sherlock noted as he fixed himself a drink.

“It _did_ make eating meals rather difficult,” Victor said as he stirred a pot. Up until now, they had dined with plastic utensils. “I finally gave in.”

“How long did it take you to unpack the box?”

“Two hours,” Victor said with a grimace, and Sherlock chuckled.

They dined on the floor again, as Victor had yet to assemble his kitchen table and the chairs were stacked in a corner behind another tower of boxes. They sat on pillows across from one another, a low table between them. Sherlock drank more than he ate, while Victor dug into his own food as though he hadn’t eaten in years. His own drink sat almost untouched.

There was a strange energy in the room today, and anticipation sat heavily between them. Sherlock felt anxious. His palms were damp, and his heart stumbled in his chest every time Victor looked at him and flashed a smile. His mouth felt dry, and as a result he probably drank more than he should have.

“Sherlock,” Victor said suddenly, getting up to clear their dishes. Sherlock rose with him. “Do me a favour?”

“What?”

“Calm down,” Victor said gently, and he leaned in to plant a soft kiss at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “All right?”

Sherlock tilted his head and captured Victor’s lips with his own. They stood there for a moment, hands full of plates and glasses, kissing gently, before Victor finally pulled away. Sherlock gave him a jerky nod, not trusting his voice, and Victor winked at him.

He assisted Victor with cleaning the dishes, and then made himself another drink while Victor switched to water.

“Will you set up a meeting so I can speak with Timothy?” Sherlock asked at last. Victor sighed.

“I suppose I can’t put you off much longer, can I?” He pursed his lips, considering Sherlock, and then finally nodded. “Sure, I’ll do it, but I’d like to be there when you talk to him.”

“Understood.”

“And it would probably be best to catch him when he’s not at home.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“Is it possible you could get him to come here after school?”

Victor considered this.

“I can text him,” he said finally. “The driver is under instructions to take him home each day, but Timothy could always request a stop here for an hour or two. Between myself, the driver, and Tim’s new bodyguard, this will be as safe a place as any. The driver will inform Christopher, of course.”

“If he has an issue with Timothy speaking with one of the case investigators, then that is something that certainly is worth knowing,” Sherlock pointed out. “Text him.”

Timothy responded enthusiastically to Victor’s message almost immediately - “What the hell is that boy doing texting in the middle of class?” - and showed up at Victor’s flat later that day. Victor formally introduced them, and Timothy shook Sherlock’s hand with a bit more vigor than Sherlock felt was strictly necessary.

“Where’s your bodyguard?” Victor asked him as Timothy set his bag on the table.

“Outside, keeping watch.”

“I’m going to go have a word with him,” Victor told them both. “Explain the situation. Give me a moment.”

He was gone for about ten minutes, during which Timothy rooted through Victor’s kitchen for food. Sherlock didn’t want to discuss any of that night without Victor present - and anyway, he wasn’t sure how to deal with a child on his own. This was far from his area of expertise.

“Right, that’s sorted,” Victor said, stepping back into the flat. “He seems like a nice bloke, Tim.”

“Yeah,” Timothy said unconvincingly. “I suppose.”

Victor flashed him a smile and opened his arm. Timothy went to him, and Victor pulled him into a one-armed hug. 

“Hi, kid,” he greeted warmly. “How’ve you been?”

“Okay,” Timothy answered quietly. “Not… great.”

“I know,” Victor said. “Come on, come inside. Have a seat.”

Timothy was a lanky child, similar in height and build to his older brother - at least, from what Sherlock could tell from family photographs. It was difficult to tell at this stage whether he would be slender like his mother or stocky like his father, and he wasn’t particularly tall. Then again, he was only fourteen. There were many growth spurts to come. One thing that could be said for certain was that he had his mother’s eyes. They were a piercing blue, and they gave him the impression of giving an intense stare. His dishwater-blond hair came from his father, however, as did his prominent nose. He had yet to grow into his features and limbs.

“I need you to tell me about that night,” Sherlock said. He gestured to a chair in the kitchen, and Timothy took it. Victor handed the boy a glass of water.

The transformation was instantaneous. Timothy’s face fell, and he looked bleak.

“Oh,” he said dully. “I thought…”

He looked helplessly at Victor, whose own face had become a mask of sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “But this is very important, Tim.”

“And that’s the only reason why you wanted to see me, is it?” Before Victor could answer, Timothy turned back to Sherlock, his face resolute and determined. “I went to bed at midnight. Anthony came home at two-thirty. When I heard Agent Wright go to bed, I sneaked into Anthony’s room so he could tell me how the party went.”

“When did you realise something was amiss?”

“When the door opened, and it wasn’t Agent Wright who came through,” Timothy said waspishly. His jaw was set in a hard, defensive line.

“Did you see his face?”

“No. He had his hood up, and first thing he did was turn off the lights. But we saw the gun, and he told us if we made a sound he’d use it.”

“What happened then?”

Timothy swallowed visibly and shook his head. Sherlock blew an impatient breath out between his teeth.

“You need to tell me _what happened_ ,” he said sharply. “You and Victor are the only eye-witnesses. You _must_ tell me what you saw.”

“No,” Timothy said quietly, shaking his head and refusing to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“God _damn_ it,” Sherlock hissed in irritation. He started forward. “Look at me. Timothy, _look_ at me - ”

“Enough!” Victor stepped forward swiftly, planting himself firmly between Sherlock and Timothy and holding out a hand. His gaze was fierce, and Sherlock had a sudden vision of what Victor-the-bodyguard must have been like when his charge was threatened. “Back off.”

Sherlock retreated to a corner. Victor sat down next to Timothy and tapped his knee.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, gently. “Tell _me_ , Tim. What did you see before I came into the room?”

Timothy raised bloodshot eyes to Victor’s.

“He told me to stay out of the way,” he said softly. “Told me to go sit in the corner, or - or he’d kill Anthony. So I did. He told Anthony to kneel on the floor, and then shot him in the back of the head. Just like that.”

Timothy’s face twisted. He looked imploringly at Victor. “I did what he asked.”

“I know,” Victor said sadly. He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Timothy, who clutched it in his hands. “And that was very brave of you, Tim. But the attacker would have done that to Anthony anyway. He had no intention of sparing your brother. It wasn’t your fault.”

“What happened next?” Sherlock prompted impatiently. Victor shot him a glare, which he did his best to ignore.

“Agent Wright came in, and the man shot him,” Timothy said dully. “And then Victor came in. They fought, and the man ran off. He left his gun behind.”

“How long between Wright’s death and Victor entering the room?”

“I don’t know.”

“How tall was the murderer?”

“I don’t know,” Timothy said heatedly. Sherlock sighed.

“What about his body type? Was he tall? Slender? Were there any physical marks on his body?”

Timothy turned pleading eyes on Victor. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Enough, Sherlock,” Victor said flatly, and without looking at him. “Give us a minute, would you?”

“But -”

“ _Go_.”

Sherlock stepped out of the kitchen and slid the door shut behind him. He left it open just a crack, though, and he stood in the corridor so that he could observe the other two without being seen. Timothy was wiping his face off with Victor’s handkerchief and pointedly not looking at him. Victor leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs, and gazed intently at Timothy.

“I wish Mum was here,” Timothy muttered.

“So do I, buddy,” Victor said gently. He swept the pad of his thumb across one of Timothy’s cheeks. “She always knew what to say, didn’t she?”

Victor’s gesture of kindness seemed to break a dam in Timothy, and his face crumpled. He doubled forward, hiding his face in his hands, and his thin shoulders shook. Victor rested a hand on his back, his face full of worry.

“I don’t want to go back to that house,” Timothy managed when he could speak again. His face was blotchy, and his eyes were glassy. “Dad won’t move, and I don’t want to live there anymore. He doesn’t _get_ it. I hate it here.”

Timothy finally looked at Victor. He whispered brokenly, “I want to go _home_. Back to Washington.”

Lines of sorrow etched themselves into Victor’s face.

“Listen,” he said after a beat, “I know I’m not living at the house anymore. But I’m not going anywhere, Tim, okay? I’m here in London, and I’m _not leaving you_. It’s only an hour away. If you need anything - _anything_ \- you call me.”

“What if I can’t?” Timothy’s voice sounded impossibly small. Victor swallowed visibly.

“I’ll check in somehow,” he said finally. “Every few days. How’s that sound? I’ll make sure you’re all right.”

“Dad won’t like that.”

“Too bad,” Victor said. “Your dad hired me fourteen years ago to look after you. And until we get this sorted out, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m not going to stop just because he’s let me go.”

Victor pushed himself to his feet, and Sherlock retreated to the main room. He pretended to be engrossed in his laptop, though he tried to eavesdrop on the farewells being made in the kitchen. Eventually, both Victor and Timothy emerged, and Victor walked Timothy down to the car that was waiting on the street below to take him back to Carlisle House.

“I hope you got something useful out of that debacle,” Victor said when he came back up to his flat. He tossed his keys into the bowl on the mantel and went back into the kitchen. Sherlock followed him.

“I had to see if he could provide us with any useful information,” he said. “I have to exhaust all my options, Victor. I can’t make an exception for anyone.”

“You made one for me,” Victor said bluntly.

“That’s different."

“Is it?” Victor shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Never mind. Look, I need to call it a night. I’m exhausted.”

Sherlock knew when he was being dismissed, and he went back into the main room to gather his things. But then Victor followed him, and stopped him on the threshold just as Sherlock was about to leave the flat. He kissed Sherlock, which was illogical, given how they had just been on the verge of a row.

What was equally irrational was that Sherlock kissed him back.

“You don’t have to go, you know,” Victor said quietly. “I’m not sending you away.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I want to?” Victor countered. He brushed a thumb over the bow of Sherlock’s upper lip. “Sometimes I just wish you would try harder to -”

“To not be myself?” Sherlock said dryly. Victor frowned at him.

“What? No. I’d never want you to be anything less than who you are.” Victor dropped his hand. “Just try to be a little more compassionate next time. Empathize with Timothy. I know you’re capable of it.”

“You have a rather inflated opinion of me.”

Victor stared at him for several long moments, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t know who told you that you were incapable of kindness,” he said finally, “and I don’t know why you chose to believe them, but they’re wrong. I _know_ you, Sherlock. You’re an arse, but when it mattered, _really_ mattered, you were there.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed wearily. “I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to stay, if you like.”

Sherlock set his things back down and followed Victor into the bedroom. They changed silently, as though they had been doing this for years, though Sherlock had to borrow a pair of Victor’s tracksuit bottoms and an old t-shirt. They kept to opposite sides of the bed, though Victor leaned over long enough to give Sherlock a gentle kiss on the lips and wish him goodnight.

Strange, how routine it felt. Victor fell asleep first. Sherlock, lulled by the sound of Victor’s even breathing, followed soon afterwards.

They woke towards two in the morning, necks stiff and toes chilled, and groggily migrated to the middle of the bed, where they huddled together for warmth. Sherlock, who was unused to sleeping with someone at his side, didn’t sleep as deeply this time around. Every time he woke, however, Victor was still dead to the world. He slept on his side, one hand resting on Sherlock’s stomach, a steady warmth that Sherlock was loath to dislodge. He was a restless sleeper himself, and he did his best to keep as still as possible.

Eventually, though, Sherlock had to give in to the demands of his body. He finally slid out of the bed at five and padded into the bathroom. When he returned a few minutes later, Victor was awake.

Sherlock slipped back under the bedclothes and, taking advantage of the fact that he no longer had to worry about waking Victor with his movements, pressed up against him. Victor gave an indignant grunt when Sherlock tucked his now-cold feet between his calves, and he fixed Sherlock with a disapproving look. The effect was somewhat lessened by the tremendous yawn he gave a moment later, and Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle.

Victor shut him up with a kiss.

It was gentle and undemanding; slow and languid in the way that Victor usually was not. He caressed Sherlock’s jaw with his thumb for a time, and then cupped the back of his head. His mouth tasted stale, his skin smelled of spice, and Sherlock fisted a hand into the front of his t-shirt - for what purpose, he didn’t know. To hold on, perhaps; seeking purchase as he started to lose himself in the wet heat of Victor’s mouth and the musky smell of him.

Sherlock rolled over onto his back and took Victor with him. Victor pulled back in surprise when he found himself looking down at Sherlock, and the hand not occupied with playing with Sherlock’s curls had landed flat on the mattress next to Sherlock’s head. Victor leaned his weight on it, blinking down at Sherlock in bemusement, his lips parted and glistening. Sherlock nudged Victor’s knees apart and slid a leg between them. He drew it up at the knee and rubbed his thigh against Victor, who swallowed visibly.

“Sure?” he whispered.

Sherlock, instead of answering, curled a hand around the back of Victor’s neck and pulled him down.

\-----

Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he woke up in someone else’s bed.

He narrowed it down to either Paris or San Juan, though he couldn’t remember which had come first. He’d spent the winter of his year as a dead man in Russia, which hadn’t been the wisest of ideas, but he had hardly been left with a choice. He had to dismantle Moriarty’s network, no matter where it took him. And from Moscow - that’s right, he had traveled first to France, and then to San Juan. He remembered the unbearable Puerto Rican summer, and how the relief of autumn in Canada had felt better than heaven.

_ Marcel _ . Had that been the man’s name? Something that started with _M_ , at least. He had been doe-eyed but hard and lean beneath Sherlock’s hands, and they had fucked with such an intensity that Sherlock felt as though he’d been about to shake apart at the seams; burn up from the inside out. He’d spent four nights in Marcel’s bed before he managed to gather the information that he needed, and he’d fled to Toronto the very next day.

He hadn’t been with anyone since. He never would have been with anyone at all if not for his years playing dead. The quickest way to work information out of someone was if sex was involved. Sex or money, really, but he had been short on the latter. His body had been the only unique commodity he possessed on the run, and he had used it accordingly. He didn’t regret a moment of it.

Victor’s head was tucked just underneath Sherlock’s chin this morning, and he had one arm wrapped around Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock had an arm resting above his head and one draped across his stomach, but his cheek was resting on top of Victor’s head. Victor’s breath ghosted across his collarbone. He was still asleep, judging by his even breathing.

Prolonged physical contact wasn’t something Sherlock had sought out in years, not since he was a child and had still taken occasional refuge in his mother’s embrace. But here he found that he was unwilling to move, even though the pressure in his bladder was just starting to become uncomfortable. Victor was a warm, solid, _comforting_ weight, and Sherlock was loath to leave the bed.

The sun had risen long before he opened his eyes, and he could see the grey outline of light around the opaque curtains that indicated an overcast sky would greet them later on. It must be well past mid-morning by now. Sherlock couldn’t recall when last he’d slept this late.

Then again, they _had_ been up until the early hours of the morning - another peculiarity. Sherlock had never possessed a desire for sex, and prior to last night the only time he had ever indulged in the act was when it served another purpose. He’d had the occasional wank over the years, but even that was for one reason or another - usually either to get himself to sleep or to clear his mind.

But last night had been something else entirely. For the first time, he had indulged in the act for no reason other than that he wanted to. He wanted to _know_ Victor, to be with him, to be _as close_ to him as another human could get.

And it had been spectacular.

Sherlock dozed for a while without meaning to. When he woke again, the bed was empty, and he fought confusion for a brief moment before the door opened and Victor slipped back into the bedroom.

“Sorry,” he whispered apologetically, sliding back under the bedclothes. “Did I wake you?”

Sherlock was too exhausted to form words, and he managed a grunt in negation. It was some minutes more before he could pry himself from the bed, but eventually the uncomfortable weight in his bladder overrode any desire he had for further sleep, and he finally got up.

When Sherlock returned to the bedroom, Victor appeared to be asleep again. His eyes flickered open when Sherlock returned to bed, though, and he offered a lazy smile.

“Morning,” he murmured, and he cupped Sherlock’s face when they kissed. His hands smelled of the apple-scented soap in the bathroom and his breath was sleep-sour, and Sherlock felt a rush of unexpected warmth in his chest. It had been so long since he’d felt anything but hollow and empty, he was nearly overwhelmed. “Do you have anywhere to be?”

Sherlock shook his head, and Victor’s smile turned almost devious.

“Good,” he murmured. He nipped at the side of Sherlock’s neck before rolling on top of him and straddling his hips. “We have some catching up to do.”

Later, Victor was dozing on his side of the bed, one arm draped across his stomach while the other rested on his chest. They had thrown on fresh t-shirts and shorts; last night’s now-soiled clothing was piled in a corner. It was after noon, though it didn’t feel that way. The skies had been gloomy and spitting all morning, and the world outside Victor’s bedroom was dreary.

“What is this?” Sherlock asked abruptly.

“ _This_ ,” Victor said without opening his eyes, “is about twelve hours old, so slow it down a bit, mate.”

“You’re not the detective who just slept with the former prime suspect in the only case he’s working at the moment,” Sherlock pointed out dryly. Victor opened his eyes and flicked his gaze sideways to peer at Sherlock.

“Fair enough,” he allowed. He shut his eyes again.

“And it’s not twelve hours old,” Sherlock pointed out. “Not really."

It was the first time he’d ever admitted out loud that this - whatever it was - had been in the making for some time. Perhaps even from the moment they had met. Victor drew a deep breath.

“Whatever it is,” he said finally, “is between us. And we’ll keep doing for as long as it feels right. How’s that sound?”

“It feels right to you?”

“Doesn’t it to you?”

Sherlock’s throat constricted.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Absolutely.”

Victor reached over and smoothed his thumb over the lines at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Then relax a bit, Danny,” he said softly. He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. “I’m not going anywhere. Not this time. Trust me.”

Except that trust was elusive for both of them, worn away by the time they were in their twenties by both parents who meant well and parents who didn’t, and siblings who were never fully aware of the harm their mere presence caused. Sherlock’s escape had been the needle while Victor’s had been India, when they should have sought refuge in one another.  But even now, years later, Sherlock still wasn’t sure that was possible.

He rolled over so that he was pressed up against Victor’s side, his head resting on Victor’s chest and one arm draped across his torso. Victor shifted so that he could wrap both arms around Sherlock. He buried a hand in Sherlock’s mussed hair and rested his cheek on top of Sherlock's head. 

“Trust was always our problem, though, wasn’t it?” Sherlock pointed out quietly.

Victor carded his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair and didn’t answer.


	8. Chapter 8

Their first true break in the case came less than a week later.

“We found a tattoo artist whose specialty happens to be a dagger,” Lestrade said when Sherlock and John showed up at the Yard one afternoon. He had summoned them twenty minutes prior. “His name is Andre Rowlins. We brought him in. Your friend thought it might be useful.”

Sherlock frowned. “Victor’s here?”

“Yeah, he came in about an hour ago.”

He led them to one of the many conference rooms at the Yard. Victor was already inside, and clearly had been there for some time. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he was busy peering at a series of photographs that had been spread out on the table.

“He’s filled you in?” Victor asked, and Sherlock and John both nodded. “Good.”

“What are you doing?” Sherlock approached the table. John could see, once he stepped fully into the room, that the photographs were actually hundreds of different tattoo designs, each one of them some variation of a dagger.

“These are all of the tattoos of a dagger that this Rowlins fellow has ever inked into someone’s skin. He’s been at it for twenty years,” Victor said. 

“And now you’re narrowing down twenty years of work based on what you remember from that night,” Sherlock said. Victor gave a slight shrug.

“I can’t tell you yet how effective that’s going to be. I’m mostly just narrowing it down by the size of the tattoo and its location. I can’t really remember anything specific about the design, and it was dark in that room. But that’s where our new friend is going to be helpful.” Victor looked up at Sherlock. His eyes were bloodshot with strain and exhaustion. “I hope, at least.”

Victor had already singled out five possible photographs from the countless ones on the table, and Sherlock started with those first. He had Lestrade pull any criminal record the people who received the tattoos might have had, and then he and John went to talk to Rowlins.

Sherlock spent three hours questioning Rowlins. He asked questions that seemingly had nothing to do with the case - “What was the first pet you had as a child?” - to ones that Rowlins couldn’t possibly have known - “On the night of 2 October 2011, you were at home, correct?” He quizzed Rowlins about the particulars of the five clients Victor had singled out while John took patient notes - notes that Sherlock would probably never use, but they would be helpful for if and when he wrote up this case.

Victor appeared at one point with ten more photographs and files for Sherlock to go over with Rowlins.

“Anything new?” Sherlock asked, taking them from him. John could tell that he was already growing tired of the repetition.

Victor shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Believe me, I wish I had more to go on than a shadowy tattoo and the smell of cinnamon. Unfortunately, photographs don’t tell us what a person smelled like.”

“Cinnamon?” Rowlins’ voice interrupted their conversation, and three heads swiveled in his direction. “The man you’re looking for… smells like cinnamon?”

Victor’s breath quickened visibly.

“Yes,” he said hastily. “Yes, he does. Do you know who it is?”

Rowlins’ thin mouth stretched into a grim smile.

“I know _exactly_ who you’re after.”

 

By the end of the day, Lestrade and his team had apprehended a man by the name of Augustus Vine. He was a small, wiry man with beady eyes and black-framed glasses, and breath that smelled like cinnamon due to the piece of gum he was chewing. Victor watched the interrogation for a time from the sanctuary of Lestrade’s office, where he could see the proceedings on a small television set that had a direct line to the room where Vine was being kept. The suspect went through two pieces of gum within the first hour of the interrogation. 

John eventually joined him with two coffees, and Victor accepted the one he was handed with a nod of thanks.

“Can’t believe I didn’t remember that,” Victor said finally in irritation. “ _Gum_. Of all the things…”

He trailed off and shook his head.

“Think it’s him, then?” John asked finally, when he could think of nothing else to say. Victor’s eyes were still glued to the television; it was likely he hadn’t even fully registered John’s words. It took him several long seconds to answer.

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “I’ll trust Sherlock’s judgment on this one.”

“You were the one who was there,” John pointed out. Victor nodded absently.

“I know. Which makes my judgment the most unreliable out of everyone’s. You were there at the crime scene, John. I don’t know what I remember anymore… and what my brain simply made up so that things would make sense.”

“So you’re deferring to him.”

“I always do.” Victor offered him a brief smile before looking back at the television.

“Yeah, listen, talking of that…” John trailed off, having plunged ahead without planning out his question. “You and Sherlock… what exactly is going on between you two?”

Now he had Victor’s attention.

“What does Sherlock say is going on?” Victor asked carefully. “You’ve already talked to him about it.”

John didn’t see the point in denying that. “I don’t think he knows how to define it. But he’s not going to ask you, so I will.”

“And it’s not your business, so I’m not going to answer,” Victor said firmly. John held his gaze.

“Look,” he said quietly, “I don’t care who Sherlock takes to bed, but he’s not had a good time of it lately and the last thing he needs is, well, someone who is as unreliable as you appear to have been in the past.”

Victor said nothing for a very long while.

“I like to think you mean well,” he said at last, his words ice, “but kindly fuck off, John.”

He turned back to the television screen, his expression stone, and John left.

 

Sherlock stopped by Lestrade’s office at half-six to find that Victor was still there. Lestrade was elsewhere, dealing with their suspect.

Victor was sprawled across the small sofa in the corner, one foot on the floor, idly tossing a small ball into the air above his head and then catching it. He was alternating between his left arm and right one for throwing. Sherlock didn’t miss the occasional wince that crossed his features every time he tried to throw with his right hand.

He knocked lightly on the doorframe, and Victor looked over at him.

“Hey.” Victor swung his other leg to the floor and sat up. “How’d it go?”

“I’ve both good news and bad.” Sherlock jerked his head at the room beyond, signaling they should go, and Victor got up. “Hungry?”

“No.”

“Too bad. There’s a decent Chinese just up the street.”

Sherlock didn’t speak on their walk to the restaurant, and when they had settled in a secluded corner of the room he ordered a bottle of wine. Victor didn’t press him for information, even though Sherlock could see that he was sorely tempted. But Victor knew better than that. Sherlock would speak when he had properly got his thoughts into order.

“Augustus Vine,” Sherlock said finally, after they had ordered their food, “ _was_ the murderer.”

“Okay.” Victor let out a slow breath, and then took a long swallow of wine. “I’m guessing that was the good news - in a manner of speaking, at least.”

Sherlock inclined his head.

“The family has already been informed of Vine’s confession. I’m told that Christopher Bowers was most relieved.” Sherlock poured himself a quarter of a glass of wine, and then swirled it for a moment before taking a tentative sip. It wasn’t his first choice of drink, but he knew that Victor preferred it. “However, Vine didn’t act alone.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

Their food arrived then, and Sherlock said nothing further until it had been distributed and the wait staff was no longer in earshot.

“There is no way he could have gained access to the house on his own, for one thing,” Sherlock said as they started to eat. “An operation like that requires someone very knowledgeable about the inner workings of the estate. Vine was the hired hand; the man selected to be the brute force, and who was supposed to take the fall if necessary. But he’s an idiot, Victor. There is _no way_ he carried out that crime single-handedly. And what would his motivations have been?”

Victor nodded slowly, and then paled.

“This means I’m a suspect again, doesn’t it?” he said quietly. “I didn’t physically kill them, but I could have accessed the house’s security system and aided the killer.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I thought of that,” he said, “and you will probably be examined again, of course. It’s proper procedure. But in order for that scheme to have been pulled off, someone would have needed to be in the house’s control room. You were asleep.”

“But -”

“Victor.” Sherlock touched his arm. Victor fell silent. “I assure you, if it comes down to it, I will investigate you so thoroughly that it will make your head spin. I will blow holes into every alibi you provide - if, indeed, there are holes to be found. But we aren’t there yet. We have eighteen other guards to investigate. Should those eighteen avenues prove to be dead ends, then yes, I will come after you. You have my word. Is that sufficient?”

Victor stared at him for a long moment. And then, slowly, he nodded.

“Good.” Sherlock withdrew his hand, and they both resumed eating.

“What’s next?” Victor asked eventually.

“Lestrade will begin investigating the other guards. It’s a long, tedious process. I’ll allow him to get started on it, and then I’ll join in. Probably in two days, though tomorrow afternoon is a possibility if it appears his team is making no progress.”

Victor finished off most of the wine, which seemed to help him relax slightly, and he spent another hour quizzing Sherlock about every minute detail that he could think to ask about the interrogation. That seemed to ease his concerns the most, especially when Sherlock reminded him that Timothy was all right - and that now he was going to get the help that he needed.

“Lestrade has always stressed the importance of finding a perpetrator,” Sherlock said, “because it offers closure. Timothy can start to move on.”

These were alien assurances to his ear, words he wasn’t used to saying. He never had need to before. But Victor visibly relaxed at the words.

“You’re right, of course,” he said, reaching for Sherlock’s hand. He squeezed it briefly before letting go. “Thank you.”

They returned to Baker Street and the comfort of Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock was still getting used to how his body responded to particular touches from Victor, and he was also still learning how Victor’s body reacted to him in return. But they were getting better all the time, and that night was better than all the ones that had come before it.

After, Victor lay on his stomach while Sherlock rested his head on the back of his shoulder. He was tracing random designs into Victor’s back with his finger, circling around the vertebrae and drawing patterns that only he could see.

“Why didn’t we do this sooner?” Victor whispered at one point.

Sherlock’s fingers dipped into the curve of Victor’s lower back.

“I never thought about it,” he said after a long minute, and it was a truthful--if embarrassing--admission. Here he was, someone who prided himself on his detachment and logic--on his powers of deduction and observation--and he had failed to see what was there all along. The hours they had spent together at university; the long, golden afternoons he had willingly spent in the company of another; that time he’d been unable to look away when he’d caught sight of Victor, soaked from the rain, his t-shirt clinging to his brawny frame.

Victor cracked open his eyes and stared at Sherlock from under heavy lids.

“Neither did I,” he said quietly.

Sherlock lowered his head to Victor’s back and pressed his lips to the dip between Victor’s shoulder blades.

“I wish we had,” he muttered against the salty skin.

He felt Victor go very still underneath him, and he lifted his head. Victor was looking at him over his shoulder, his expression both tentative and sad.

“I still would have left, Sherlock,” he said softly, and those words cut deep.

“I know,” Sherlock lied, swiftly burying his hurt. He rolled over on to his back and shut his eyes. “I was just… saying. It would have been nice.”

Victor didn’t reply, and Sherlock fell into a restless doze soon after that.

He was up before Victor the next morning, and managed to get in a shower and a few moments alone with a cup of coffee before John came into the kitchen.

“Morning,” he said briskly, his tone guarded, and his gaze swept over Sherlock from head to toe. Sherlock suppressed a sigh, because he knew exactly what John was looking for signs of. John’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced down the hallway towards Sherlock’s bedroom. The closed door seemed to have confirmed his suspicions, and his face darkened.

“I didn’t hear you come in last night,” John said mildly. He set about making himself some tea.

“We were in long before you,” Sherlock said, allowing the statement to hang heavy in the air before adding, “Vine confessed, by the way.”

He filled John in on what had happened at the Yard after John left. John lifted an eyebrow.

“Yeah, it definitely sounds like there’s more going on,” he said. “An operation like that, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were at least two people on the inside working it.”

He leaned against the counter, nursing his tea for some moments, and watched Sherlock as he pulled out his computer and started his daily routine of checking his mostly-inactive website. 

“I take it you haven’t looked at the morning paper yet,” John said finally. “You haven’t seen it.” 

“See what?” Sherlock asked absently.

“That picture of you and Victor from the restaurant last night.”

Sherlock reached for the paper and looked at the front page. Indeed, there was a picture from last night on the right-hand column, and a story underneath speculating about how Victor’s involvement with him might affect the outcome of the highest-profile murder case in recent history.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, if the picture the photographer had managed to snap hadn’t been the one where Victor briefly held his hand. 

Sherlock scowled and set the paper aside. He caught John’s glance, and saw that his gaze was disapproving.

“You don’t like Victor.”

John was quiet for a moment.

“I think he means well. I like that he seems to care about you,” he allowed finally. “And I’m… pleased that this is the closest to being happy that I’ve seen you in a long time. But no, I’m not a fan. He walked out of your life sixteen years ago without an explanation. I’m not exactly ecstatic that he’s back.”

“He had his reasons,” Sherlock said. John nodded.

“I’m sure he did. And he’ll have a whole new slew of them when he leaves again.”

The words landed like a blow, and Sherlock struggled to keep his face neutral.

“He’s not going to leave like that again,” he said stiffly.

“Are you as certain of that now as you were the last time?” John asked gently, which disarmed Sherlock. He had been preparing for a row, and it didn’t come.

Sherlock swallowed bitterly and shook his head.

“No.”

 

Sherlock heard from Lestrade again later that afternoon.

“We have him,” he said, sounding slightly out of breath. Sherlock glanced at Victor, who was sitting across from him at the table, his head bent over a book.

“Hold on, Greg,” Sherlock said, and then he put his mobile on speaker. “Say that again.”

“We have him,” Lestrade repeated, and Victor looked up. “The man responsible for fabricating this whole plot - we have him.”

“Who?” Victor asked sharply.

“One of your fellow bodyguards. He confessed to the whole thing.”

“All of it?” Victor asked, sounding incredulous. Even Sherlock had to admit he was surprised it had happened so quickly. 

“Yeah. He was in on a plan with Augustus Vine, apparently. He let Vine into the house that night, and he’s the one who disabled the security systems and shut down the whole house for the fifteen minutes it took Vine to accomplish his crime.”

“Christ,” Victor muttered, rubbing his forehead. “Who was it?”

“I’m sorry,” Lestrade said regretfully, “but I can’t tell you that just yet.”

“How did you figure it out so quickly?” Sherlock asked, slightly irked that he hadn’t had a chance to investigate himself. 

“The agent who was in the control room - Marie Hammond, the one who took the initial distress call from Victor - told us she left the room a little after three for a cup of coffee, and she left it in the care of another agent. This is standard procedure, and we didn’t think much of it at the time.”

“But when you realised that someone on the outside was the murderer,” Victor said, “you knew that someone in the control room had to have been pulling the strings.”

“The moment Hammond got back , your distress call came in,” Lestrade went on. “So this time around, we started our questioning with the agents who had been in the control room. It turns out that the agent who took over for Hammond suspended the security system long enough for Vine to get into the house. He was still in there when Hammond returned and your distress call came in, though, which hadn't been part of the plan. So he improvised and put the whole house on lockdown, which cut off all the agents from one another. God only knows how he got the codes, though. We're thinking he managed to hack the system somehow."

“ _Christ._ ” Victor rubbed his forehead. “Did he say _why_ he did this?”

Lestrade sighed. “The initial plan was to have Augustus Vine kidnap one of the boys and hold him for ransom, but that plan went awry when he came upon both boys in Anthony’s room at the same time. It threw him off, and he was afraid that Anthony had seen his face, so Vine killed him. But Vine was further surprised by Stephen Wright waking up, which resulted in another death. He tried to at least get away with kidnapping Timothy. He figured that would actually net them more money, in the end. The last surviving Bowers? Timothy was a goldmine, in his eyes. They were intending to split the money.”

There was silence for a moment.

“He just confessed?” Sherlock asked, still in slight disbelief. He could almost see Lestrade’s shrug over the line.

“The moment we mentioned that it had to have been someone in the control room, the bodyguard who had taken over for Hammond confessed. It happened fairly quickly.” Lestrade sighed. “Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are.”

“Does Christopher know yet?” Victor asked finally.

“We informed the family this morning,” Lestrade said. “A few hours ago, in fact.”

Victor swallowed visibly. “What happens now?”

“The bodyguard and Augustus Vine will go to prison, most likely. Christopher Bowers and Timothy try to reclaim their lives. I get to go back to my other cases.” Lestrade sighed. “And you try to move on, Victor.”

 

That night, Victor couldn’t sleep.

He feigned it well - so well, in fact, that for a time Sherlock slept comfortably in his arms without even the slightest indication that Victor was still awake. He kept so still, and his breathing was so even, that Sherlock didn’t even think to doubt that he was sleeping. But Sherlock woke towards midnight in an empty bed, and when Victor didn’t return to the room he knew that something was amiss.

“There is a perfectly decent chair right behind you,” Sherlock said when he came out into the main room to discover Victor sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of one of the armchairs. He stepped around Victor to sit in the chair, and he placed both of his hands on Victor’s shoulders. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie.”

“It’s just - it’s strange,” Victor whispered. “I feel like I’m waking up.”

“How so?”

Victor leaned back against Sherlock’s knees. “I don’t know, really. It’s just - those years with that family. That time I had with you, before I left. It was spectacular, all of it. Until - you know. And now I feel like I’m waking up from a dream, and now - now I need to face reality.” Sherlock could hear the self-deprecating smile in his voice. “I never was very good at that. Dealing with reality, with commitment. Wasn’t really my strong suit, was it?”

“You spent fourteen years with the Bowers.” Sherlock squeezed Victor’s shoulder. “That’s rather good for someone who doesn’t like commitment.”

Victor rested a hand on top of one of Sherlock’s.

“I suppose,” he said quietly.

“Do you know what you’ll do now?”

Victor shook his head. “Not really. Move on, I suppose. Build a life for myself. Sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Well, I suppose it is simple, for most people. I was just… never very good at settling down. There was always something better out there on the horizon; elsewhere.”

“Will you stay?”

“In London?” Victor gave a slow shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not exactly my first choice for a place to live.”

Sherlock ran a hand through Victor’s hair.

“I can’t imagine living anywhere else but here,” he said softly. 

“And that’s where you and I differ,” Victor said gently. “One of the ways, at least. You were always content with this life.”

“It’s not so bad,” Sherlock managed after a moment, once the sting of those words faded. 

“It’s not for me,” Victor said softly. 

Sherlock was so used to being numb that he often forgot that he could feel anything at all anymore. Only the strongest emotions got through, and Victor’s words cut him to the quick. The pain was sharp and sudden, and he swallowed it down. He’d suspected that this would come, after all. He knew Victor; he knew that allowing himself to feel anything for his friend was a gamble, because it was never a guarantee that Victor would stay.

But Victor was wrong - so wrong. It wasn’t that Sherlock was content with this life he had made for himself; it was just that this was the best he could do, given the circumstances. He had made the best he could of a life without Victor, but it was apparent, now more than ever, that he could be content anywhere so long as Victor was with him. 

Victor was not so easily pleased.

“I worry about him,” Victor said suddenly, startling Sherlock from his thoughts. “It keeps me up.”

“Timothy?”

Victor nodded. “It’s ridiculous, I know. They’ve caught both the murderer and the mastermind behind the plot. He’s safe. But sometimes I wonder….”

He shook his head, trailing off.

“Even if that’s the case,” Sherlock said finally, “it’s not your concern anymore. The immediate issue has been dealt with, and the case has been solved. You heard Lestrade - it’s time for you to move on.”

He got up abruptly and returned to his room, where he laid awake for close to two hours before falling into a fitful sleep.

Victor didn’t return to bed that night. 

\----

They buried Anthony on a crisp September morning.

Now that the case had been brought to a close, Christopher saw no reason to keep the boy’s ashes in his home any longer.

“It doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead,” he said darkly. “And Timothy doesn’t need that reminder sitting on the mantel. No, he’ll be put next to his mother - where he belongs.”

Victor accompanied them to the cemetery. He stood a few paces behind the two grieving Bowers, a habit from all his years of service. He was always one step behind the family, watching them discreetly. But Christopher had turned around and gestured for him to join them, and Victor had hesitated for a moment before coming to stand at Timothy’s side.

“Don’t be a fool, son,” Christopher said, without any true heat. He kept his eyes fixed on the small coffin that held his son’s urn. “You don’t belong back there anymore.”

Victor tuned out the pastor’s words but not the sounds of the world around them - leaves crunching approximately thirty metres to his left, a car on a gravel path, Timothy standing ramrod-stiff at his side. He was always going to be on the lookout when in the presence of this family, whether he intended it or not.

He felt something brush against his elbow, and a moment later two fingers latched tentatively onto the ends of his own. Victor glanced sideways at Timothy, who was keeping his gaze fixed resolutely on the coffin that was being slowly lowered into the ground. He opened his hand completely and wrapped it around Timothy’s smaller one, acquiescing to the unspoken request, and held it loosely until Timothy drew away. It was only a minute, maybe two, but Victor felt as though he’d been punched in the gut.

Hell, he was going to miss this boy.

He left Christopher and Timothy to say their final goodbyes in private, after the grave had been closed.

Stephen had been buried in the same cemetery, just outside of the cluster of graves that belonged to the Bowers and associated relatives. Victor knelt before his grave. He folded his hands and bowed his head, fixing his gaze on his knees. He wasn’t much of a religious man, but he spared a quick prayer for Stephen anyway.

“You were too late for Tony,” Victor said, lifting his head and putting a hand on the marble headstone, “but you died trying to protect Tim. Thank you. Thank you for being there for him when I couldn’t be. I hope it was quick.”

He got to his feet and brushed dirt from his knees, and then he rejoined Christopher and Timothy.

“Where will you go, Victor?” Christopher asked. Victor shrugged.

“I don’t know, really. I think I’ll stay in London for at least a little while,” he said. “Find myself some work.”

Christopher shook his hand. “I’ll put in a good word for you with the Met. You’ll do well there, Victor.”

“Thank you, sir.” Victor turned to Timothy. “Tim -”

“When will I see you again?”

The boy had jutted out his chin defiantly, as though daring Victor to deny him. Victor shot Christopher an uneasy glance.

“Timothy, let’s not impress upon too much of Victor’s time. He’s got his own life to lead now -”

“It’s all right,” Victor said quickly, because the last thing he wanted was for Timothy to feel as though he had been a burden in any way. “I don’t mind. Listen, Tim, we can do lunch sometime, all right?”

He caught Christopher’s eye and added, hastily, “I mean, if your dad says it’s okay.”

“Of course,” Christopher said. He didn’t look particularly enthused, though, and Victor didn’t blame him. He now represented a horrible chapter of Christopher’s life. It was small wonder that the man was looking forward to being rid of him once and for all.

Timothy gave Victor a stiff handshake, not meeting his eyes, and then left for the waiting car. Christopher turned back to Victor and offered his own hand.

“Thank you for everything,” Christopher said. He clasped Victor’s hand briefly and then released him. 

“It’s been an honour,” Victor said. “Sir, before you go -”

Christopher turned around. “Yes?”

“I just - I’m sorry, I have to ask. In light of all that’s happened, are you increasing security?” Victor asked. He knew this wasn’t his place, and it would probably only anger Christopher, but he needed to know. “Or revising current procedures? It’s just - I worry about -”

He gestured vaguely at the car. Christopher caught his meaning. 

“Timothy will be well looked after,” he said. “I can assure you of that. Don’t let it bother you, Victor. His safety is not your concern anymore.”

The words felt like a blow, but Victor swallowed back the pain and gave Christopher a tight smile. He lingered in the cemetery until the car drove away, and then trudged off towards his own vehicle.

There were worse ways to start a new life, he supposed. 

He just wished he had been ready to let go of the old one.

\-----

Augustus Vine and his accomplice were sentenced on a rainy morning in late September. 

Lestrade was the one who called Sherlock with the news.

“You’ve probably already heard all about it from Victor, but I thought I’d give you a call anyway,” Lestrade said. 

“No, actually,” Sherlock said. He stirred sugar absently into his coffee and then took a tentative sip. The hot liquid did nothing to dispel the sick feeling in his stomach – the one that had been sitting there ever since his last conversation with Victor, which had occurred over a week ago. “We haven’t been in contact.”

“Oh - I thought…” Lestrade trailed off awkwardly. Sherlock let the silence hang for a few moments, because he didn’t know what to say.

“We haven’t spoken since before the Bowers boy was buried,” Sherlock elaborated finally. “I assume he’s busy.”

“I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon,” Lestrade said bracingly, though he didn’t sound convinced. 

Sherlock couldn’t blame him; he also couldn’t summon much optimism about the situation. 

“I know,” John said cheerfully when Sherlock told him about the sentencing later that afternoon. He gave a small smile and held up a newspaper. “It’s already hit the papers.”

Sherlock, who hadn’t had a chance yet to peruse the various news outlets, took the paper from John’s grasp. He skimmed the article, which talked about the elaborate plot and how Sherlock had broken the case wide open.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said finally, setting the newspaper aside. “Not really. It was all Victor and Lestrade.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” John beamed at him. “When was the last time they had a favourable story about you in the papers? And did you read the last paragraph? _It appears as though any doubt in regards to Holmes’ integrity has been severely misplaced_.”

“I did.”

John gave him an imploring look. “This is _good_ , Sherlock. Cheer up a bit, hey? Go - go call Victor, or something.”

Sherlock snorted. He’d texted Victor as soon as he got off the phone with Lestrade, and had yet to receive a response. It had been the same for a week now – every effort he made to contact Victor was simply met with silence. There were dozens of reasons for why that was, Sherlock was certain, but the only one he could focus on was the likelihood that Victor had no further use for him now that the case was concluded. If he had no reason to respond to the text, he wouldn’t. Victor was going to resume his life, the one that had been interrupted by the murders; the life that didn’t include Sherlock, and never would have if not for chance.

For a moment, Sherlock couldn’t breathe.

“So,” John said finally, breaking the silence, “it’s serious, is it?”

“What is?” Sherlock managed.

John snorted. “You know damn well what. You and Victor.”

“That’s none of your business,” Sherlock said sharply.

“It is when you’re my best friend,” John said calmly. “And before you ask, it’s your receipts. You’re not buying condoms, but you keep buying lube. Ergo, it’s serious.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and felt a flush creep up the back of his neck. He _knew_ he should never have put John in charge of his finances - though it had been nice to unload that tedious task on someone who would actually do it properly.

“Since you’re so _damned_ concerned,” he snarled, “then I think you should know that _it_ isn’t anything. Whatever _it_ was, it’s over now. We haven’t spoken in over a week. He’s not answering messages from me - though clearly he’s around, because Lestrade spoke to him regarding the sentencing. The case is finished; Victor will be moving on.”

John actually looked surprised, and then slightly chagrined.

“I thought -” He broke off. “You seemed rather keen on him.”

Sherlock snorted.

“None of that matters,” he said. “Victor was never very good at commitment. At least - not where I was concerned.”

“Maybe he’s just busy,” John offered lamely. “He’s probably trying to get his life back on track.”

Sherlock grunted non-committally.

“I’m sorry,” John said finally, and it actually sounded genuine. “You - um. You deserve better, mate.”

“I don’t particularly care what I _deserve_ ,” Sherlock said derisively. “What I _want_ is him.”

Before John could reply, he added firmly, “But wants and desires are irrelevant. They are a distraction, and I should have known better than to indulge in them in the first place.”

John shook his head sadly. “You can’t live your whole life like that, Sherlock.”

“It’s worked for me thus far.”

“No,” John said slowly. “No, I don’t think it has.”

He left an hour later, carrying one of the final boxes from his room upstairs out to Mary’s waiting car. He returned to the kitchen long enough to clap Sherlock on the shoulder and wish him good night.

“Don’t forget - the rehearsal is at seven on Friday.”

“I know,” Sherlock told him. “You’ve reminded me of this three times already this week.”

John nodded and gave him a tentative smile. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m just - nervous, I guess.”

Sherlock fixed him with a perplexed look. “Why would you be nervous? You don’t doubt Mary’s commitment. Or your own, for that matter.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just - it’s hard to explain.” John’s smile faded, and he fixed Sherlock with an earnest look. “I have to say though, mate, I’m really glad you’re going to be there. It means a lot, to have you as my best man.” 

John gave him a quick embrace, clapping him twice on the back, and then departed.

The next time John entered Baker Street - whenever that would be - it would be as Mary’s husband. Sherlock swallowed hard. There had been a time, too long ago, when he had been John’s world. But Sherlock’s fall had been just one sacrifice in a series of sacrifices. His role in John’s life - in Lestrade’s life, in everyone’s life - had been another.

The door downstairs closed, and Sherlock was alone.


	9. Chapter 9

It was an outdoor wedding.

The weather, for the first time that week, was stunning. Sunlight played off the flowers in the garden, making it appear as though they were glowing, pink and yellow and orange petals that shone so brightly they were almost painful to look at.

Molly spent an inordinate amount of time trying to tame Sherlock’s curls, and eventually decided that his various flyaways were a lost cause.

“They’re endearing,” she said finally, and he rolled his eyes but thanked her for her efforts nonetheless.

It took everything he had to remain focused throughout the ceremony. The sun was relentless, and while the temperature wasn’t particularly hot, it was warm with his morning coat on. He could feel sweat beading just under his hairline, and by the time they got to the vows it was already starting to trickle down the back of his neck.

Sherlock could feel the majority of the crowd at his back, but his eyes were supposed to be fixed on the couple, and so he had to put up with the discomfort of knowing that there were people staring at him when he couldn’t observe them in return. It wouldn’t have been so bad, really, had it not been for his recent run-ins with the media. Prior to his fall, he had reveled in the attention from a crowd.

Now, all Sherlock ever wanted to do was hide.

He was staring sightlessly at the back of John’s head, listening to the droning voice of the minister but not registering any of the words. He could tell where they were in the ceremony by tracking the movements and gestures. Mary and John had gone from standing side-by-side to facing each other, and he knew things were drawing to a swift close.

There was only the exchange of rings left now. It occurred without much fuss, and with little monumental fanfare. Sherlock didn’t know what he had been expecting, but still it was a blow that no one else seemed to feel, and that hurt all the more. It wasn’t that he had any desire to keep John around - at least, not in the way that most people had always assumed about them.

It was only that he had been just starting to get used to the idea of Victor being in his life again, and for the first time he could see the appeal of what John and Mary had. But now John was leaving for good, and so had Victor, and Sherlock was back where he had started eight years ago.

Alone, in 221B. It was as though he had done nothing with his life. He could have fallen asleep in 2010 and woken up in 2018, and wouldn’t have known that eight years had passed between those two dates.

He was pulled from his thoughts by applause from the crowd, and he came back to himself to notice that John and Mary were kissing. They then turned and faced their guests, and Sherlock turned with them, performing the movement automatically. His legs felt numb, and he went a bit lightheaded when he noticed the size of the audience that had been watching them.

But it was over, and none of the gazes were on him.

Except one.

Sherlock’s eyes caught upon a face in the crowd, and he stared in utter stupefaction for a moment. Victor was standing at the end of a row, on his feet and clapping along with the rest, but while everyone else was watching the new bride and groom, his eyes were on Sherlock. When Sherlock noticed him, Victor winked.

John and Mary were halfway down the aisle already, and Sherlock followed them, forcing himself out of his confusion. He still had a role to play in all of this. The day wasn’t over quite yet.

The ceremony had taken place on the grounds of a small country church. The reception was to be held afterwards at the Holmes family estate - Mycroft’s idea, of course. Sherlock wasn’t sure of the reasoning behind John’s decision to accept the offer. The estate had enough room for all of the guests, that was true, but other than that nothing made it a particularly desirable venue. Part of him had wondered if this was John’s way of trying to make him comfortable with all of the changes that were occurring; as if moving it onto Sherlock’s own territory would make the transition easier.

He didn’t have the heart to tell John that he hadn’t been home to the estate in over a decade; if not for this reception, he wouldn’t have returned at all.

Sparing people’s feelings. He’d never done that before. He wondered what it said about him now.

 

The Holmes family estate had been in Mycroft’s possession for twenty years now, but no Holmes had actually lived in the house since Violet Holmes’ death when Sherlock was eighteen. Mycroft, if nothing else, was excellent at keeping up appearances. He paid staff to maintain the house anyway. They lived on the grounds or in the staff quarters, and every once in a while Mycroft made an unexpected visit home. This was also where he and Sherlock used to conduct the farce that Christmas dinner became after their mother’s death. Mycroft seemed content with continuing on as though nothing had changed; Sherlock couldn’t accept all the things that had.

Two dogs lived on the property. Baxter and Paxe, though technically Holmes family dogs, had never actually lived with or ever been cared for by members of the Holmes family. The dark-haired labs had been purchased by Mycroft and given to Geraldine, the main housekeeper, to care for. She had raised them from the beginning, and Sherlock never thought of them as anything other than her own.

Even now, as he stepped foot out into the yard, the dogs offered him little more than a cursory sniff before moving on. They were milling amongst the guests, well-behaved and inconspicuous, which was hard to come by with such large animals.

“They don’t even recognise you anymore.”

The voice at his elbow was soft, but Sherlock jumped nonetheless.

“Silly child,” Geraldine murmured, and she went up on her tip-toes in order to plant a kiss on his cheek. She touched his hair, and then cupped the side of his face. “My sweet boy. Where have you been?”

“Busy,” Sherlock said quietly. He gave her a loose hug. When he pulled back, she tapped his chest in disapproval.

“Too busy for me?” she scolded. “Half a day, that’s all you’d need! Come out for lunch; you’d be home by two.”

“Please, don’t,” Sherlock whispered. Her words were unexpectedly cutting, adding on to the other wounds of the day. There was laughter all around him, and chatter, and bright sunlight that he wished would just go away. He wished everything would just _go away_.

He was so tired. So very, very tired. Evidently, Geraldine must have picked up on this. Her eyes softened, and she changed the subject.

“So handsome in that suit,” she said softly, straightening his collar. “Your mother would have been so proud.”

“Gerry -”

“Sorry, love, sorry,” she said. “What do you need?”

Sherlock looked out into the yard, taking in the high white tent and the tables and the guests milling all over the lawn. He picked out John and Mary easily. It took him a few moments longer to find Lestrade, and then eventually he spotted Molly and Mrs Hudson. Everyone else was a stranger. He hadn’t even seen Victor since that brief glimpse in the church. He was beginning to wonder if he’d imagined it after all.

“A stiff drink,” he said finally. “And fast.”

 

Sherlock eventually worked up the nerve to start mingling with the guests - though part of that, he was sure, was due to the drink Geraldine poured him. More vodka than anything else, it wasn’t so much refreshing as it was bracing, and Sherlock was grateful for it. He detested people as much as he did small talk, and he hated useless conversation above all else.

But this was for John, and Sherlock had found over the years that there were many things he could do for John’s sake. Even this, awful though it was.

He eventually found refuge in a tiny knot of familiar faces. Lestrade, looking as out-of-place as Sherlock felt, was chatting with Molly and Mrs Hudson. Mike Stamford was there as well, and he shared a cordial nod with Sherlock before drifting off to another group.

“Hell of a party,” was Lestrade’s greeting, and Sherlock gave an absent nod.

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” Mrs Hudson chirped. “ _Perfect_ for an occasion such as this.”

“I can’t believe this was your house,” Molly said. “Well, is, I suppose.”

“Past tense is preferable,” Sherlock said. He took a long swallow from his drink, ignoring Molly’s odd look and Lestrade’s blatantly curious one.

“You did so _well_ , dear,” Mrs Hudson cooed, placing a hand on his elbow, and Sherlock allowed her to take his arm.

“He did, didn’t he?”

Sherlock turned. Victor was standing on his other side, a charming smile on his face; the kind that he only wore for social functions, which showed off his teeth but didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was using it on the others while at the same time his shoulder pressed against Sherlock’s; a steady, sure presence in the face of all this.

Oh, how well Victor knew him. Sherlock could weep.

Instead, he blurted, “Where the hell have you been?”

Victor turned the blank smile on him, but then his eyes softened and crinkled at the corners. “Got caught up talking with your maid. Delightful woman.”

“Housekeeper,” Sherlock corrected. He resisted the urge to say _That’s not what I meant_. “Geraldine. The dogs were at you, too, I see.”

He plucked a hair off Victor’s suit and held it out to him. Dozens more covered him, from shoulder to ankle.

“They’re rather persistent,” Victor said apologetically. Their eyes met again, and something seized in Sherlock’s chest. He was sure, had they been alone, that Victor would have kissed him. Instead, he held Sherlock’s gaze for an endless second, and then he winked.

Lestrade cleared his throat and swiftly started a new conversation. “So how’s it been, settling in to life in London again?”

They all chatted amiably for a while, Victor holding up the majority of the conversation while Sherlock resisted the urge to lean against him. He was exhausted; blank and drained. He couldn’t summon a coherent thought and couldn’t process the conversation happening around him, so he let it wash over him in waves. He only came back to himself when there was a persistent pressure in his side, and he looked over to see Victor elbowing him gently in the ribs. Molly and Mrs Hudson had already moved off, arm-in-arm, and Lestrade had been drawn into conversation with one of Mary’s bridesmaids.

“Come on,” Victor said softly, and Sherlock followed him without question.

There was a small pond on the edge of the property, and it was shielded from the sightline of the house by sweeping willows. Victor, who had only been here once before, remembered the way better than Sherlock. He led them to a swing that hung from a thick branch and sat down; Sherlock, after a moment spent contemplating the swing’s construction and wondering about its possible deterioration over the years, finally decided that he didn’t give a rat’s arse and sat down next to him.

“Meant it, you know,” Victor said as he dug out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and then put the rest away. “You did well today.”

“It wasn’t difficult.” Sherlock leaned back in the seat and tried to avoid the tempting smell of cigarette smoke. Victor turned his head to the side in order to blow out a stream of smoke. He pushed a foot against the ground and sent them both swaying in the cooling breeze. “All I did was stand there.”

He plucked the cigarette from Victor’s fingers and took a long draw. The smoke burned his throat and stung his eyes, but it was the best thing he’d tasted in ages.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, handing the cigarette back.

“Mary invited me.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“I wanted to be.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yes,” Victor said. The fact that he didn’t try to deny it was unexpectedly cutting. “I’m sorry. It was nothing to do with you.”

“Then what was it?”

“I’m -” Victor fell silent for a moment. “I don’t really know what to do with myself. I’ve had the same career since I was twenty-seven, and that all changed overnight. I guess I just wanted to try to figure my life out first.”

Sherlock, not knowing what to say to that, fell silent. He watched the pond, eyes tracking the small ripples that were blown across its surface by the breeze. The willow branches stirred and rustled overhead. Victor laid an arm across the back of the two-seater, casually, and Sherlock gingerly leaned some of his weight into his side.

“Why are we here?”

“Thought you could do with a moment’s rest,” Victor said with a shrug. “Have they got you on SSRIs?”

The question was casual, as though Victor was asking about the weather or inquiring after what Sherlock wanted for dinner. Sherlock didn’t even bother asking how he knew. If Victor hadn’t picked up on his struggles, then he was as dense as a rock and Sherlock would have wanted nothing to do with him.

“No.”

“You refused.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

Victor’s hand moved to his shoulder, and he rubbed it absently.

“They might help.”

“They might not,” Sherlock countered. He shifted, leaning more of his weight against Victor, and Victor accepted the burden without complaint. “They’ll affect my ability to think.”

Victor finished his cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe, and then he relaxed against the back of the swing. 

“And the depression doesn’t?” he asked.

Sherlock, who had never allowed himself to think the term - nor anyone else to say it - winced. It did, of course it did, but Sherlock didn’t need this. He’d heard it from John and Mary; from Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. He’d been pulled into hours-long meetings with Mycroft and even had an awkward encounter with Molly in the morgue. For the past five years, ever since his return, his mental health had been scrutinized and analyzed and debated by everyone he knew, whether he was present for it or not. It was bad enough that this was happening at all; what made it worse was that his pain was so public. 

He didn’t need Victor in on it, too.

And he was so bloody _tired_.

Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, as though he could physically press strength back into his body. He was still exhausted, tired down to the bone, and there was a persistent ache in his joints that he knew had no physical reason to be there.

Victor rested a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing slowly, and Sherlock welcomed the warmth; the quiet strength behind the gentle touch. Eventually, he got to his feet and hauled Sherlock up as well. Sherlock raked a hand through his hair and glanced up in the direction of the house, even though it was obscured from view by the trees.

“I need a drink,” he decided finally. “Come on.”

Victor said nothing, but this time even his quiet disapproval was palpable.

 

It was three drinks, actually, and they got Sherlock through the rest of the evening.

The party started to break up around ten, though the last of the guests didn’t leave until eleven. After that, it was only John and Mary. Victor stayed out in the garden with the dogs, which Sherlock was torn between being irritated and grateful over. The last thing he wanted was for Victor to witness their awkward and tense goodbye, but at the same time, he could do with some support.

It ended up just being awkward, with Sherlock trying to feign cheerfulness and John trying to downplay his own good mood. They shook hands. Mary enveloped him in a tight embrace, gushing about how lovely the party had been and how wonderful he was to have opened his home to them.

And just like that, they were gone.

Sherlock stood for a while in the darkened foyer. The house was silent and cold. Geraldine would have gone to bed by now.  He hadn’t intended to drive back to London tonight, and certainly couldn’t right now with all the alcohol he had consumed, but the thought of staying in this house was equally unappealing.

He supposed he should find Victor.

It wasn’t difficult, in the end. Victor was out in the garden still. From his vantage point, and without the crowd of people to interfere, he could look out over the entire property spread out below the house on the hill. The light spilling from the garden lamp posts only stretched out so far, though, and they couldn’t quite see the tree line that separated the back of the property and the pond from the front.

But they could still see the lawn that stretched from the garden to the tree line, a sea of perfectly-clipped grass that was alight with fireflies this evening, probably one of the final times they would be seen before the winter chill set in.

“You don’t come here often,” Victor said as Sherlock approached, and Sherlock nodded. “You should. It’s peaceful.”

“To someone who never grew up here, perhaps.”

“This is your home.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It hasn’t been my home for a very long time. I’m not sure it ever really was.”

Victor looked sad and vaguely disappointed. He said, quietly, “Your mother was a good woman, Sherlock. You loved her.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “But believe it or not, Victor, there are some things I’ve never told even you.”

They walked along a gravel path, one that twisted and curved and wound around the immense lawn. It was surrounded by hedges, and circular plots throughout contained flowers of yellow and red; orange and purple. There was a small fountain in the center, and it was surrounded by rose bushes that had been his mother’s pride and joy. She had been gone for almost two decades now, but Mycroft still made sure that the house was looked after, and the roses tended to.

Sherlock watched the flowers for a while, roses that were holding on to the last vestiges of summer before the weather turned. They swayed in the breeze, calmly, as though they weren’t clinging desperately to life.

It was only now that Sherlock started to relax. He could feel the tension bleeding from his limbs, and the guard he had so carefully maintained all day was starting to slip.

He’d always hated people finding out that he lived in this house, and on this estate. It made for too many questions and too much gawking. He’d heard it all before already - the awe and the wonder and the jealousy and the blatant curiosity. How could someone from such wealth still be so dissatisfied with the world?

It was irritating.

But Victor had come from a similar world; from the land of household staff and tutors and nannies. This was as normal to him as it was to Sherlock, and Sherlock knew he never would have to put up with the tedious questions from Victor. He understood already.

Somewhere along the way, Victor’s fingers slid between his own, and Sherlock held on tightly. 

“So who keeps up the house when you’re not here?” Victor asked. Sherlock gave a slow shrug.

“Geraldine lives on the property. She looks after the dogs, the house. Mycroft has a landscaping crew tend to the lawn, and he has a series of repairmen lined up for whenever something needs to be fixed. There are a few other temporary staff members who come in as needed, but it’s Gerry for the most part.”

“You sound almost fond of her,” Victor said with a smile.

“She took care of my mother in her final months,” Sherlock said. “And after all that… she looked after me.”

Victor went quiet, no doubt remembering the mess Sherlock had been when he had returned to university following his mother’s death. It was around that time that he stopped going by his first name, and insisted on going by _Sherlock_ instead.

He’d never told Victor why. He wondered what that said about him - and about them.

They made a slow circuit of the garden and finally returned to the fountain. It was well after dusk, now, and the only illumination came from the lights Geraldine left on in the house. The garden was dim; the fountain, tall and silent. Its jets wouldn’t be turned on again until the spring. It would be quiet all through the winter.

Victor gave Sherlock’s hand a slight squeeze and, when Sherlock turned around, tugged Sherlock to him. Sherlock stumbled and caught himself against Victor, and as a result the kiss was clumsy. But then Victor chuckled against his mouth, and Sherlock relaxed. He was still slightly off-balance, one foot on top of Victor’s and the other slightly behind him, but Victor was holding him upright and Sherlock soon lost himself in the kiss.

Until, that is, the two dogs came streaking across the lawn and blew right by them, knocking into Victor’s legs and making him stumble.

They both tumbled into the fountain, Sherlock first and Victor on top of him, and the startling cool water sent them into a shocked silence. They were too stunned to even give a startled cry. The water wasn’t deep; it wouldn’t have even reached up to Sherlock’s elbow if he stuck his arm in and touched the bottom. But it was enough to soak them anyway, especially as they fought to disentangle their limbs from one another, a task that was made difficult by the sodden weight of their suits now dragging them down. Victor went under once and Sherlock twice, and they both spent several seconds coughing and spluttering.

And then came the laughter.

Victor started it after taking one look at Sherlock, who was trying to slick back his mop of now-wet hair and failing miserably. And Sherlock couldn’t help but follow, for Victor’s hair was now sticking up in all directions and his pristine suit was soaked and full of creases, and it was so rare to see Victor anything close to disheveled. Even when he woke up in the morning, sleep-mussed and bleary-eyed, he still managed to look stunning.

“What’s - what’s so funny?” Victor had to gasp out the words, but for the most part he appeared to be sobering. He was now mostly chuckling. Sherlock, though, couldn’t stop _laughing_.

“I don’t - you - look _ridiculous_.” It was only semi-coherent. Victor snorted and ruffled his hair.

“I’ve looked worse,” he said good-naturedly, “and you know it. Come on, up. Maybe these suits can be salvaged…”

He trailed off. Sherlock was still laughing, so hard that he could barely draw breath. This was mad, _absurd_. It was a brilliant September day, John had been married, Victor might leave again, he was sitting in a fountain surrounded by his mother’s roses at the house he hadn’t called _home_ in twenty years, and wasn’t it all just so _hysterical_?

Sherlock’s chest hurt. His throat was tight and his lungs were burning, and his chest had constricted painfully. He was drawing shuddering, shallow breaths, and it took him several seconds too long to realise that his cheeks were damp again.

Oh, bloody _hell_.

Concern radiated off Victor in waves, but he said nothing. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s back, between his shoulder blades, and rubbed gently. Sherlock shuddered violently and fought not to openly weep. He bit down on his lower lip and locked his jaw, swallowing back the sobs that threatened to break free of his throat.

It was all too much. The changes, the losses, the fact that the world kept passing him by and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Sherlock couldn’t stop shaking, and his efforts to dry his cheeks were futile. 

“You thought it meant I was leaving, didn’t you?” Victor asked quietly, his voice grave. “When I said I wouldn’t be content here - you thought I’d be leaving. That’s why you were so surprised to see me today.”

“I didn’t think there was anything left to keep you here,” Sherlock croaked when he finally managed to wrestle himself back under control. His voice sounded dry and cracked, like a field starved of rain. “It’s happened before - you leaving. It wasn’t an unfounded assumption -”

“Shut up,” Victor growled, and kissed him. When he drew back, he whispered fiercely, “I _am not_ leaving you. I had no intention of leaving again. I’m not twenty-five anymore, Sherlock. I’m done running.”

Sherlock snorted softly. “You said you’d been avoiding me. You needed to - _figure things out_.”

Victor brushed a strand of damp hair out of Sherlock’s eyes. “Yes. And I’ve figured out that I don’t want a life that doesn’t have you in it. I assume the rest will just fall into place.”

Sherlock swallowed. “You said that this isn’t the kind of life you could be content with.”

“Life in _London_ isn’t exactly the kind of life I’d be content with,” Victor corrected. “I’m sorry; I thought you understood. Look, Sherlock, I spent a decade living in a nation’s capitol. It’s not really for me, no. But you’re in London, so why would I ever leave?”

Sherlock choked back another wave of emotion. Victor cupped his face and kissed his eyelids, his nose, his forehead; made soothing sounds as he tried to get Sherlock to calm down.

“Come on, let’s get inside,” he whispered finally. “You’re freezing.”

 

Victor lit the fireplace in the main room, and he stripped out of his clothes quickly and efficiently. He draped the wet articles of clothing over the backs of chairs and grabbed a clean outfit from his bag, which he’d dropped on the sofa upon his arrival at the reception. None of the guests had passed through this room; they had only been in the foyer and the long hallway that led to the back of the house and the expansive yard beyond.

“Bit forward of you, isn’t it?” Sherlock said, but there was no bite to his words. There wasn’t really inflection to his words, either, which he noted distantly but couldn’t summon the energy to do anything about.

“I had a feeling I could impress upon your hospitality for a bit,” Victor said, shrugging a t-shirt over his solid frame. “C’mon, out of those clothes.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. Sherlock listened to Victor piss for some seconds, and then finally compelled his numb fingers to move. He worked his way out of his morning coat and braces, and then started on the buttons of his shirt. This took a considerable amount of concentration, and by the time he’d managed to unbutton it, Victor had returned.

He’d been upstairs, clearly, though Sherlock hadn’t noticed him leave the bathroom. He’d rooted through Sherlock’s wardrobe, too, for he presented Sherlock with tracksuit bottoms and a Cambridge t-shirt. He then disappeared into the kitchen to fix them both a cup of coffee while Sherlock changed.

The nice thing about Victor - _one_ of the nice things about Victor - was that he didn’t expect conversation for the sake of social convention. Sherlock recognised that any other two humans together for such a long period of time would surely have spoken by now, but Victor didn’t seem in any hurry to make small talk. They drank their coffee in silence, relaxed on the sofa before the fire, and then retreated quietly to Sherlock’s room.

It wasn’t truly Sherlock’s room, though, not really. He hadn’t set foot in his childhood bedroom since the day he moved to Cambridge. He’d chosen a room on the second storey this time around for his visit to the house. It was one of several guest rooms, and it was comfortably spartan and generic. He only needed a bed and a wardrobe. He didn’t need the accompanying memories.

Victor slid under the bedclothes first. Sherlock spent several long minutes trying to light the small fireplace and, when he finally succeeded, shed his t-shirt and followed suit.

He expected Victor to be asleep, though he wasn’t sure why that was. Perhaps it was more hope than anything else. But Victor reached for him as soon as Sherlock had arranged the blankets around his body, and he drew Sherlock into a lazy kiss.

Sherlock quickly lost track of time, between the kisses Victor dropped on his mouth and the ones he trailed along Sherlock’s jaw. He moved his attentions to Sherlock’s neck and collarbone, and then lower, where he took one of Sherlock’s nipples between his teeth and teased it into a hard nub.

He knew where this was going - knew the mechanics of it - but it was still a surprise when Victor ventured lower still, kissing his way down Sherlock’s sternum and dipping the tip of his tongue into Sherlock’s navel. Sherlock was gripping the bedsheets at this point, his erection straining against his cotton briefs, and it was with great relief that Victor finally hooked his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and slid them down his hips.

Sherlock worked the fabric down his calves and eventually managed to kick it away. It was the only amount of control he had up until that point, and as soon as that was accomplished Victor took over again. He placed both hands on Sherlock’s thighs and pushed them apart, settling between Sherlock’s legs and nosing the crease between his pelvis and thigh. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, and he resisted reaching for Victor. Instead, he fisted his hands into the bedsheets and held on as though he was on the edge of a precipice.

When Victor finally took him into his mouth, Sherlock couldn’t resist the jerk of his hips as he was engulfed in wet heat. Victor hummed, pushing one of Sherlock’s knees towards the mattress and resting his other hand on Sherlock’s hip, effectively keeping him immobile. Sherlock bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and clenched the sheets with his hands, holding on. Victor pulled off until he was only sucking on the head, and flicked his tongue across Sherlock’s slit. Sherlock groaned, his head falling back against the pillow, and then whined as Victor sank down on him again.

It was almost torturously slow. Victor sucked and hummed; chuckled and slid his tongue flat along the underside of Sherlock’s shaft. He teased and tormented and, just as Sherlock was about to kick him in the back of the head and take matters into his own hand, finally wrapped a hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock and began to bob his head. He hollowed his cheeks and drew Sherlock down as deep as he could go, until the tip of his cock touched the back of Victor’s throat, and the world exploded into white. Sherlock’s thighs quivered and the pressure built and built and built behind his navel until it spilled outwards, down Victor’s throat, and he came in pulses.

“Vic -” Sherlock hissed, the first word he’d spoken in what felt like hours, and Victor gave a gasping sort of chuckle. He crawled up Sherlock’s body and reached for the water glass on the bedside table, but Sherlock interrupted him. He drew Victor into a kiss, tasting salt and the bitter taste of himself on Victor’s tongue.

Victor didn’t say anything when they broke apart. He buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and draped the rest of himself over Sherlock’s body, and it was a comforting sort of weight. They didn’t sleep, not really, but there were stretches of time that Sherlock wasn’t aware of, and he was certain that once or twice he heard the beginning of a snore tumble from Victor’s lips.

But at some point he became aware of the pull again; of the inevitable draw to Victor’s body. They kissed first, slow and languid, and Victor’s hands drifted south first. He gripped Sherlock’s hips and squeezed his arse, and eventually he reached between their slick bodies and cupped Sherlock’s balls.

Sherlock rolled them both, until Victor was flat on his back and blinking up at him. They were only centimeters apart, and Victor’s breath grazed his cheek.

“Can I?” Sherlock whispered. Victor stared at him for several long seconds, his dark eyes flickering in the firelight, his hands pinned to the mattress by Sherlock’s relentless grip.

“Pockets,” he murmured finally. Sherlock reached over the side of the bed for Victor’s tracksuit bottoms, and after a moment of searching he finally located the bottle of lube.

Victor was already rock-hard and leaking at this point, but it took some coaxing for Sherlock to return to his previous state of arousal. Victor eventually reached between them, and with deft fingers he brought Sherlock just to the brink of release.

“Easy now,” he murmured as Sherlock removed his fingers from Victor’s arse. He hooked one leg over Sherlock’s shoulders and wrapped the other around his waist. Sherlock hesitated, and Victor grunted. “ _No_ , don’t stop. Oh, God - come here.”

He drew Sherlock down for a kiss, and he plundered Sherlock’s mouth so thoroughly that Sherlock almost didn’t notice when Victor started to push down on his cock.

_ “Jesus,”  _ Sherlock hissed suddenly as he breached Victor, and Victor chuckled. He stopped moving, but Sherlock couldn’t, and he pushed the rest of the way in with blood pounding in his ears and his brain firing blanks.

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been this. Victor was tight, unbelievably so, and the friction Sherlock encountered was almost enough to send him over the edge again right then and there. He sucked in a breath and pulled out, so that the tip of his cock was just barely inside Victor, and then slowly pushed in again.

Sherlock lost himself after that. The focus of his world narrowed to Victor - his tight heat and his moans, and the broken sounds that spilled from his lips every time Sherlock brushed against his prostate with his thrusts. He came undone first, coming apart while Sherlock continued to snap his hips, and Sherlock wasn’t long in following. The heat that coiled behind his navel finally became too much and spilled outward, into Victor, and Sherlock shuddered through the aftershocks while Victor gasped beneath him.

He collapsed on top of Victor, panting, and slid out unceremoniously. Victor let out a quiet whimper when Sherlock pulled out of his body, and then sighed as Sherlock kissed his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured against the overheated flesh. He felt drained and boneless, and wasn’t sure he could move even if he wanted to.

Victor gave a soft huff. He shifted so that Sherlock was settled against his side, not on top of him, and tucked Sherlock’s head beneath his chin.

An indeterminate amount of time passed. They eventually disentangled themselves long enough to shower, and they stripped the bed in favour of cleaner blankets. They then crawled back under the bedclothes, completely naked this time, and Victor tugged Sherlock over to him. Sherlock slid hairy legs between Victor’s own and rested his head on the dark bristles of Victor’s chest. Sex had never held much of an interest for him, but in that moment it occurred to him what he _did_ find appealing about all of this.

He liked the feel of hard planes and solid muscle; the scent of musk and the feel of coarse limbs that slid against his own. He liked the sight of Victor’s broad shoulders and taut stomach. He relished the sound of Victor’s heartbeat and gentle breathing when they spent the night sleeping side-by-side. And the sounds that Victor made and the expressions on his face when in the heat of the moment were only for Sherlock to see, and they weren’t shared with anyone else.

Sherlock knew he was never going to understand Victor completely, but he was the sole person on the planet who was allowed to come the closest.

 

Victor was up with the sun.

Sherlock heard him slide from the bed and pad into the adjoining bathroom just as the sky beyond the curtains started to turn from pitch-black to dusty blue. He returned briefly after that, long enough for Sherlock to settle into his warm embrace and start to drift off again. But Victor, evidently, couldn’t find sleep again, and he left the bed just as Sherlock was beginning to drop off.

It was like being doused in cold water, and Sherlock found himself wide-awake after that. It frightened him to think how quickly he had come to rely subconsciously on Victor’s presence. Now, it seemed, he couldn’t even sleep peacefully in a bed alone anymore. It felt wrong without Victor there.

He lingered in the bed until almost nine. After that, Sherlock reluctantly conceded defeat and left its sanctuary. He showered and dressed, and then went downstairs to discover Victor out with the dogs.

“I can’t tell them apart,” Victor said as Sherlock approached. He picked up a ball that Baxter had dropped at his feet and whipped it across the lawn. Both dogs tore after it.

“Baxter has a patch of white fur on his left paw,” Sherlock said, coming to stand next to Victor. They watched the black labs wrestle over the toy. “Paxe does not.”

“Good to know.” Victor turned and flashed him a smile. “Morning, love.”

“You were up early.” Sherlock gave him a chaste kiss. “Hello.”

“I’m sorry,” Victor said regretfully. Paxe returned the ball to him this time, and he tossed it away. “My shoulder gives me problems this time of year. It’s the change in weather, I think. It starts acting oddly, and it doesn’t exactly make sleeping comfortable.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t expect you to.” Victor’s smile was kind. “Did you sleep all right? I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“Don’t be.”

This time, Baxter returned with a stick while Paxe brought the ball back, and Victor laughed. He tossed both items in opposite directions, and the dogs tore after them.

“When had you planned on returning to London?” Victor asked.

“First thing this morning,” Sherlock said. “I hadn’t intended to stay at this house any longer than necessary.”

Victor brushed a strand of Sherlock’s hair out of his eyes. “Let’s stay for a few days.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Why?”

Victor slid an arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him close. “I don’t know. Because we can. John’s off on his honeymoon. I haven’t got work to return to, and you’re between cases. What’s keeping us from staying for a while?” 

Sherlock tucked his hands into his pockets and leaned against Victor.

“I’ve been back for months and I haven’t seen you - _properly_ seen you, I mean. This is the first time we haven’t had an awful case hanging over our heads,” Victor went on. He brushed his lips over the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “Think about it: just you and me, alone in the country. I want to get to know _you_ again, Sherlock.”

“Yes, all right,” Sherlock said with a sigh, though he couldn’t deny that the thought of two days alone with Victor was appealing. He smiled in spite of himself, and he felt the curve of Victor’s answering grin against his ear.

“Come on.” Victor kissed his temple and turned to head back up to the house.

Sherlock followed, calling to the dogs, who came dashing after them. Victor reached between them and took Sherlock’s hand, sliding their fingers together, and Sherlock held on fast.


	10. Chapter 10

Victor started looking for work not long after their return to London.

“Mycroft has expressed interest in you,” Sherlock said one afternoon when Victor came over for lunch.

"I'm _painfully_ aware of that. Damn man won't leave me alone. And the answer’s no," Victor said as he went into the kitchen. "Absolutely, unequivocally, _no_.”

Sherlock set aside his book and followed Victor into the kitchen.

“I knew there was a reason why I liked you,” he said, sliding a hand into Victor’s back pocket and pulling him close, so that they were standing hip-to-hip. Victor snorted, but he leaned down as Sherlock tilted his face up to meet him halfway for a kiss. He’d intended for it to be brief, no more than an affirmation, but before he knew it Victor had him pressed against the counter, the sharp edge pressing against his arse while Victor slid a leg between his own -

“Oi, you two! This is still my flat, too, you know.”

They broke apart, startled. John was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking torn between amused and irritated. A flush crept up the back of Victor’s neck, which Sherlock found interesting, though Victor shot John a smile that was a mix between sheepish and unapologetic.

“And how many times did Sherlock walk in on you and Mary doing the exact same thing?” he retorted with a smirk. “Also, if I remember correctly, you’ve moved in with your _wife_. Not really your flat anymore, is it?”

John’s smile went from teasing to ice, without him even moving a muscle.

“We were just having lunch,” Sherlock found himself saying, without even really thinking about it. “Join us?”

John’s eyes flicked to him, and then back to Victor. He seemed to decide that it wasn’t worth the fight, for his eyes softened, even though he looked slightly wary.

“What are you having?” he asked finally.

There was silence for a moment as Sherlock and Victor stared at one another. They hadn’t got that far and, in all honesty, it had appeared as though lunch was going to be spent in the bedroom again.

“Pasta,” Victor decided finally, breaking the uneasy silence. “Sherlock, you’re on drink duty.”

“Right,” Sherlock said, pleased to have a task to occupy himself with. He pressed Victor’s hand in gratitude as they passed one another in the confined space, silently thanking him for diffusing the situation.

Lunch was quiet and subdued, but not unpleasant. John spoke of the honeymoon, which he and Mary had only just returned from the day before. He and Victor tentatively bonded over their mutual dislike of packing and moving. Victor’s flat still wasn’t entirely unpacked - though it was mostly finished now - and John apparently still had some items he had yet to pack and move out of Baker Street, hence the reason for his visit this afternoon.

Victor slipped outside for a cigarette after their meal, and John followed Sherlock into the kitchen.

“So,” he said, a protective edge to his voice. “Things have been all right?”

“Yes.” Sherlock hesitated a moment, and then added, “We stayed out there the rest of the weekend.”

John lifted an eyebrow. 

“He doesn’t show any signs of leaving, then?” he asked bluntly. Sherlock shook his head, and John’s gaze softened somewhat. “Good.”

Sherlock returned to his experiments while John went upstairs. Victor returned a few minutes later, smelling of cold and smoke. He came up behind Sherlock and wrapped an arm around him, laying it across Sherlock’s collarbone and squeezing gently.

“Hey, stranger,” he greeted softly. Sherlock twisted in his loose embrace in order to give him a proper kiss. “Finish what we started?”

“We’d have to move things to the bedroom unless you want John to get an eyeful. But I could be persuaded.” 

Victor’s laugh was warm against his face, and Sherlock gave a chuckle before leaning in again. Dimly, he heard the door downstairs slam shut, and he was steadfastly trying to ignore the quick feet on the steps when there were three knocks on the door of 221B.

“Oh, this isn’t happening,” Victor groaned, breaking the kiss. “Go on, then. Probably a new client.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Sherlock said, frowning, because whoever was on the other side of the door displayed none of the hesitancy of the people who normally called on him for help. He was usually their last resort, and they came to him highly skeptical and with an air of disbelief, as though they couldn’t believe that it had come to this.

Sherlock opened the door, and Timothy blew past him.

“I _knew_ it,” he exclaimed, triumphant, as Victor rose from the chair Sherlock had vacated. “I knew you’d be here.”

“Timothy?” Victor looked dumbfounded, and then his look melted quickly into one of concern. He came over to Timothy and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Are you all right? What’s going on?”

“I was on my way home from school,” Timothy said, moving away and dropping his bag. “Wanted to stop by and say hi, so I ditched my security detail. Got any food in?”

He wrenched open the refrigerator door and peered inside.

“Those toes?” he asked, pointing to a bag.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. Timothy shrugged.

“Cool.” He grabbed an apple and bit into it. He flopped down into a chair at the kitchen table and kicked it back on two legs. Victor pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a second. Then he crossed to the refrigerator door that Timothy had left open, closed it, and looked over at Sherlock.

“Give us a minute?” he asked, apology written all over his face. Sherlock retreated to the other room, shutting the door to the kitchen in his wake.

“Boyfriend skip out on you?” John asked when he came downstairs a few minutes later to see Sherlock sitting in an armchair, trying to find interest in a book but finding himself more occupied with trying to eavesdrop on the conversation from the kitchen. 

Sherlock suppressed an irritated sigh.

“We have an unexpected visitor,” he said shortly. He snapped the book shut and rose from his chair just as the kitchen door slid open again. Timothy emerged first, looking sheepish, and an exasperated Victor followed him.

“Sorry,” Timothy muttered in Sherlock’s general direction. Victor jabbed him in the ribs, and he added, “For taking the apple.”

“And?” Victor prompted. Timothy turned around and glared at him.

“I was looking for _you_ ,” he said indignantly. “Not my fault you happened to be here!”

“Oh, for the love of -”

“Timothy,” John stepped in swiftly, “I’m John Watson. I don’t think we ever officially met.”

He held out his hand. Timothy’s eyes went wide.

“No way,” he breathed, looking awestruck. And then he narrowed his eyes. “Expected you to be taller.”

“ _Timothy_ ,” Victor said in exasperation.

“Sorry, sorry.” Timothy shook John’s hand vigorously. John, to his credit, appeared completely unfazed. “Love your stuff. My favourite’s the case of the aluminum crutch.”

John laughed. “ _Everyone’s_ favourite case is the one of the aluminum crutch.”

“I need to call your driver and bodyguard,” Victor told Timothy with a heavy sigh. He nodded to an armchair by the fireplace. “Sit there and don’t even _think_ about moving until I come back, got it?”

Timothy didn’t seem particularly put out by the order, and he made cheerful conversation with John until Victor got back. He stayed after that for close to an hour. He talked to both Victor and John, but pointedly refused to acknowledge Sherlock’s presence. He wouldn’t even make eye contact with Sherlock.

Eventually, there came the sound of a car horn from the street below, and Timothy’s face fell.

“That’s for me,” he said, looking not at all happy about it.

“I’ll walk you out,” Victor said, clapping him on the shoulder. Timothy got up from the sofa and grabbed his bag, and they disappeared down the stairs.

“That’s probably my cue to leave, too,” John said, getting up. “Nice kid.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally.

Victor came back up the stairs just as John was leaving, a rucksack slung over his shoulder, and they parted with a handshake and a nod before John disappeared down the stairs.

“Tim had a fight with Christopher,” Victor offered as he closed the door, even though Sherlock hadn’t asked. “Something about his dad not wanting him to be around me too much. He’s pretty upset.”

“His happiness is not your responsibility,” Sherlock said shortly. “You aren’t his father, Victor. What do you care?”

Victor was quiet for a moment.

“He doesn’t really like you, either,” he said finally. He turned away to start cleaning up from lunch, and Sherlock went back to his earlier experiment.

“So I gathered,” Sherlock said dryly. “He didn’t look too pleased to find you here.”

Victor was quiet for a long moment. He washed the final plate; Sherlock heard him set it on the counter and drain the sink.

“It’s not because of anything you did,” he said after a moment. “Not really. He likes the idea of the Great Detective - he grew up with John’s stories. But he’s not particularly fond of _you_.”

“I’m confused,” Sherlock said, “and you know how annoying I find that.”

Victor turned and leaned against the counter, facing him, wiping his hands on a dishrag.

“Tim was very close to his mother,” he said after a moment. “Hell, both boys were. She was as warm as Christopher isn’t - not that he doesn’t care, but he’s never been the nurturing type. Elizabeth was. And she had a special bond with her youngest. They used to go to this local bookshop on Thursdays after school. She’d pick him up, and they’d go to this little tiny bookshop at the end of Market Street.”

Victor’s eyes were far away now. He wasn’t looking at Sherlock, but rather out the window in the main room.

“He loves books,” he said softly. “He’s not the best student and never has been, but he loves to read. Or be read to, if the book was challenging. He was only nine at this point, so he sort of straddled the line between reading independently or having it done for him. And they’d go to this shop on Thursday afternoons, and the security detail would clear the shop for an hour. They had - they had this little alcove on the second storey. Elizabeth would sit in one chair, and Timothy in the other, and they’d read together. Sometimes she would even read to him.”

Victor swallowed hard, his peaceful expression becoming troubled.

“He was eight when they first discovered the cancer. Elizabeth and Christopher didn’t tell the boys much about it, just that their mum was sick and she was going to get better soon. We knew otherwise, but they wouldn’t let us tell the kids. It was terminal from the start, but the boys weren’t to be told.”

Victor blew out a sharp breath between his teeth.

“I’d met someone around that time,” he went on. “Nice fellow. Easy on the eyes, a good shag, settled enough where we could be stable but not so much that I found it stifling. I was - I was going to leave, actually. The Bowers, I mean. Start another chapter, see where it took me. I was with him when I got the call. It was my day off.”

“She died.”

Victor nodded.

“Stephen called me.” He shook his head. “He delivered the news, which was bad enough - I’d always liked Elizabeth - but then he told me that Timothy was missing. He’d given his bodyguards the slip not long after they broke the news to him, and he hadn’t been seen since.”

“It was a Thursday,” Sherlock ventured. Victor nodded slowly.

“I found him in the bookshop. He was - he was sitting in that alcove with a book, looking out the window, and I just -” Victor broke off and swallowed hard. “You’d come back around the same time that Elizabeth truly started to deteriorate, and John’s latest collection had just been published. ‘The Empty Hearse’ was the first story.”

“And they’d been reading that book together.”

Victor nodded. “And when I asked him what he was doing, Timothy looked at me - he looked at me and said that he had to find the story, the one where you came back. So he could show his dad, show him that mum wasn’t truly gone and that she would be coming back.”

He stopped speaking abruptly, and Sherlock realised with a jolt that it was because he simply _couldn’t_ anymore. It was taking everything Victor had to remain composed.

“I could’ve left it to Christopher,” he hissed at last. “I _should’ve_. But you’ve met the man. He has all the warmth of a paperclip, and Tim had just lost the most important person in the world to him. So I had - I had to explain to him that no one came back from the dead. You just - you just never had been gone in the first place.”

He drew a sharp breath through his nose and added, in a broken whisper, “I’ve never heard him cry like that; before or since.”

Victor slid bloodshot eyes over to Sherlock’s face.

“You represent one of the worst days of that child’s life. Add on to that the fact that he feels as though you’ve stolen me away and, well. There’s a reason he doesn’t like the reminder that you’re now in my life.”

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, considering carefully where to go from here.

“You decided to stay with the family because of that incident?” he asked. Victor gave a slow shrug.

“Tim needed me,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t prepare him for his mother’s death and I couldn’t stop it from happening. The least I could do was give him some stability. I didn’t want to make him get used to a brand-new bodyguard on top of everything else. And - hell. I like the kid. Turns out, I didn’t really want to leave him behind.”

“But now you have to.”

Victor’s lips thinned. He turned back to finish cleaning the cutlery. “Yes, well, it was bound to happen eventually. Maybe I’ll give Christopher a call later this week. Seeing Tim once every few months for lunch… that shouldn’t be a big deal.”

Unless, Sherlock mused to himself, the reasons Christopher Bowers gave for keeping Timothy away from Victor were as flimsy as his evidence that an outside force had been responsible for his wife’s death. But he didn’t care enough to bother putting that idea in Victor’s head. The boy was irritating, and Victor spent too much time worrying over him.

It was time to bring that chapter of his life to a close.

Sherlock got up from his seat and slid his arms around Victor’s middle, embracing him from behind.

“Come on,” he said in a low voice, his lips brushing the shell of Victor’s ear. Victor shivered. “ _Now_ let’s finish what we started.”

 

From the kitchen, it was five steps to Sherlock’s bedroom. 

Their shirts were off before they had even made it that far, and Sherlock had just barely kicked his bedroom door closed before Victor’s hands were on his belt. They were naked by the time they made it to the bed, and Victor pushed him down onto the mattress before crawling on top of him.

“Third time’s the charm?” he asked between kisses, and Sherlock huffed against his mouth.

“One more interruption,” he growled, “and I will _murder_ whoever is standing on the other side of that door.”

Sherlock hooked a leg behind Victor’s knee and flipped him onto his back. It was clumsy and sudden, and Victor laughed against his mouth when he suddenly found Sherlock on top of him. He took the opportunity to slide his hands down Sherlock’s spine and grip his arse, and Sherlock ground against him in response. 

“Hey, come back -” Victor protested feebly when Sherlock broke the kiss and turned his attentions to Victor’s neck.

“Shan’t,” Sherlock muttered against the side of Victor’s neck, and Victor made a pleased noise in the back of his throat as Sherlock nipped at a bit of sensitive skin there. He moved lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down Victor’s sternum, and then his inner thighs. Victor went very still at that point, anticipation crackling between them, and his ragged breathing started to hitch in his chest. 

“Sher -” he hissed, and broke off abruptly when Sherlock took him into his mouth.

It had been years since he’d last done this, but still Sherlock managed to take most of Victor in one go, relaxing the muscles at the back of his throat in order to do so. He wrapped one hand around the base of Victor’s cock to make up for what he couldn’t manage, and Victor groaned. Sherlock glanced up at him, and noted with satisfaction that Victor had both of his hands fisted into the sheets and his head thrown back against the pillow. 

He returned his attentions to Victor’s cock, hollowing his cheeks as he did so, and Victor made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. One of his hands left the sheets and buried itself in Sherlock’s hair - 

\- And Sherlock gagged. 

He pulled off abruptly and pushed himself away - away from Victor’s heat, his musk, the feel of his hair against Sherlock’s cheek. The taste of Victor was still on his tongue, and Sherlock reached automatically for the glass of water on the bedside table. His heart was pounding, and when he lifted the glass he noticed his hand was shaking.

Victor returned the glass to the table, evidently fearful that Sherlock would not be able to manage the task without breaking it. He said nothing, but Sherlock could feel his worried stare in the dark.

“Sorry,” he muttered finally. “Maybe next time - don’t touch my head when I’m doing that.”

“I’m so sorry,” Victor said, sounding horribly guilty. “I didn’t think -”

“Don’t. I didn’t think to warn you,” Sherlock said swiftly - though mostly that was because he had no idea himself that he would react like that. 

All of his previous experiences with this particular act had been unpleasant, true, and they usually involved him on his knees in a darkened alley, tiny stones cutting into his knees and a cock halfway down his throat. The hands of the men he’d sucked off were always broad, it seemed, and relentless, and he’d had very little control over any of it. But it was different with Victor - he _knew_ that. Victor meant him no harm. Sherlock wasn’t doing this because he needed information; he was doing it because he _wanted_ to.

Sherlock leaned over and found Victor’s mouth in the dark. They kissed for a while, languid and slow, until eventually Victor pulled away.

"This never interested you at university.” Victor reached out and traced the shell of his ear. “I’m not entirely certain that it interests you now. But I'm not your first.”

“No," Sherlock said. And then he added, "It interests me with you.”

Victor looked as though he didn't know what to make of that. “Was it Sebastian Wilkes?”

Sherlock shook his head. Victor had never been fond of Seb, but there had been a time when he thought the two of them were sleeping together. Hell, even Sherlock had been half-convinced himself that he would eventually wind up in Seb’s bed. The most they had ever managed, though, were a few drunken kisses against a wall with Sherlock’s hand down Seb’s pants. Seb had rocked into the hand while Sherlock worked him off, and that had been the extent of it. Sherlock had never got hard in return, and found that the whole experience in general was a little off-putting. Sex was messy, and involved strange noises and expressions and a loss of control Sherlock didn’t entirely like.

Not that it was perfect with Victor. There were still fluids involved - there was no escaping that - and sometimes the sound of their bodies sliding together was more comical than sensual. More than once already they had dissolved into helpless laughter in the middle of things, and it was a while before they could resume. But while that loss of control was still present - that switching over from his rational mind to his primal instincts - Victor was always there with him, holding his hand while they rocked together or pressing his face into Sherlock’s neck, his breathing just as ragged and uneven. Victor was right beside him whenever he went over the edge, his touch warm and grounding and _sure_ , and he was never long in following.

“You aren’t going to like the answer,” Sherlock said finally.

“There’s only one answer I won’t like,” Victor said, his voice taking on a hard edge. “And I assure you, it won’t be because of anything that you did.”

It took a moment for that to sink in.

“No one forced me,” Sherlock said. He reached over and stroked Victor’s jaw, feeling the stubble rasp beneath his fingertips.  “No, nothing like that. It’s just that, during my time away, gathering information was paramount to my mission being a success.”

He explained it all then, telling Victor about the men and women whose beds he had found himself in while he was supposed to be dead; about the darkened alleys and the hours spent on his knees. He didn’t know what it said about him that he couldn’t recall who the first one had been. He knew that was something that normal people held on to for years, sometimes even cherished. But the faces and bodies and beds had blended together in the years since, leaving behind only an impression of unpleasantness.

He’d never told anyone this. Victor listened with a quiet intensity, and Sherlock couldn’t read his silence. When he’d finished, it stretched on for a few moments more.

Victor eventually let out a slow breath. He traced a finger along Sherlock’s brow, and Sherlock could feel that he was trembling.

“If that Moriarty fellow was still alive,” Victor said quietly, “I’d put a bullet into his brain myself.”

“No.” Sherlock reached for his hand; found it in the dark and held on tightly. “I don’t regret a moment of what I did - or what I had to do. Everyone back home made it out alive, which was my goal. It’s _fine_. It’s over.”

But Victor held him tightly that night, even in his sleep, and Sherlock was grateful for his presence.

\----

John and Sherlock slowly started to see more of each other as October moved into November. It seemed to be an unspoken agreement between them that the tensions from before the wedding were forgotten, and that they would try to continue on as before.

Usually, Sherlock went to John and Mary’s for tea. He would have been more at ease in a pub, but John pointedly avoided taking him to one, and Sherlock didn’t see the point in fighting it. Eventually, the evening would end, and he could go back to Baker Street for a drink in peace.

Victor accompanied him once or twice on these outings, and it was apparent that some of the tension between him and John had dissipated. They remained cool towards one another, but polite, which was a far cry from the hostilities they had both expressed up until this point.

Sherlock, despite what people seemed to think, got on extraordinarily well with Mary. There were times that he liked her even better than John, though he would never admit this out loud. He didn’t mind that she was in John’s life; quite the opposite. It was just that he had never taken well to change.

“I heard that Victor finally found work,” Mary said one evening after dinner. It was just the three of them tonight. “That’s wonderful.”

Sherlock nodded. “He does seem… rather relieved to finally have some purpose in his life. Or so it seems to me, anyway.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Some marketing thing.” Sherlock waved a hand vaguely through the air. He hadn’t paid much attention when Victor told him about the new job. “It keeps him busy, which is all that matters to him. He enjoys travel and can’t abide sitting still for long. They’ve already got him slated to fly to Paris at the end of the week.”

Mary lifted an eyebrow. “God, that’s going to be rough, having him gone on a regular basis.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t particularly care where he goes, so long as he always comes back.”

Mary took it for a joke and laughed, but Sherlock caught John’s concerned eye. He took a long swallow of water, wishing it was scotch, and glanced at the clock on the wall. Just a couple of hours until he could escape to the refuge of Baker Street. Victor was busy at work tonight, and Sherlock would be left alone to drink in peace.

“So what’s the future hold for you two, now that the case is over?” Mary propped her hand on her chin, staring at Sherlock fondly.

“He…” Sherlock trailed off, fighting and failing to suppress a tiny smile. “He wants to continue things as we have been.”

Mary grinned. “Will he move in with you, then, now that John’s gone?”

“Mary, they’ve only been together - what, a month?” John reprimanded. She rolled her eyes at him.

“ _You_ told me on our very first date that you were going to marry me someday,” she said derisively. “You’re hardly one to talk about moving too quickly.”

John grudgingly conceded the point.

“So, why does he call you Daniel?” Mary asked Sherlock, clearly on a roll now.

John lifted an eyebrow at her. “What?”

“Victor sometimes calls him Daniel,” Mary clarified for her husband’s sake. “I’ve heard him say it a couple of times when he’s been over here.”

Sherlock inclined his head reluctantly.

“He does,” he allowed. “It’s an old habit. I _was_ Daniel when we met. It’s my first name.”

John stared at him. “I didn’t know that.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Sherlock said dryly. “My mother named me after my father. After she passed away, I decided I didn’t want to be associated with him anymore.”

“Why not?” John looked perplexed. “You were pretty young when your dad died, yeah? You don’t remember much of him anyway.”

Sherlock shook his head. Mary moved the conversation to safer topics.

\----

Sherlock and Victor fell into a routine as November wore on. 

Victor, when he wasn’t traveling, worked long hours at the office during the day and generally retired to his own flat at night. This suited Sherlock just fine, because he was soon busy with research and writing papers, and now that the Bowers case had been brought to a satisfactory conclusion, he was starting to receive some promising inquiries on his website. 

They sometimes met for dinner and then parted ways. When Victor returned from his business trips, they would spend entire weekends together. Sherlock had never successfully lived with anyone aside from John, and the fact that he could go for days in Victor’s presence without becoming irritated was almost unprecedented. 

He never wanted it to end.

They were at Victor’s flat one Sunday morning. Sherlock had been up since dawn, and he had spent his time alternating between reading and watching the traffic on the street below. Victor finally rose close to nine, and he was in the shower when his mobile went off. 

Sherlock glanced at the display and, after a moment’s contemplation, answered the call.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said briskly. There was a brief pause on the other end.

“Sherlock,” a man’s voice greeted warmly. “God, it’s been _years_. How are you, son?”

“I’m well, thank you, Mr Trevor,” Sherlock responded automatically. William Trevor chuckled.

“Too right you are. I’ve been following that Bowers case. Tragic, of course, but you were marvelous - as ever, I imagine.”

“Thank you.”

“Not that I don’t mind talking to you, Sherlock, but I have been trying to get hold of Victor. I assume he isn’t available?”

“He’s in the shower,” Sherlock answered without thinking. He winced inwardly; Victor might not yet have informed his father about their… whatever this was.

“Ah - yes, I suppose I am calling a bit early in the morning for Victor. Listen, would you tell him to call me as soon as he gets the chance? We need to work out details for Christmas.”

“I will,” Sherlock assured. 

“Wonderful,” Trevor said. “I appreciate that. You take care of yourself. We’ll see you out here very soon, I imagine.”

He rang off. Sherlock set the phone aside and resumed his reading.

Victor finally ventured into the main room twenty minutes later, freshly showered and dressed, his hair mussed and his eyes bright. 

“Good morning,” he greeted cheerfully, giving Sherlock a kiss before sprawling next to him on the sofa. He settled his legs over Sherlock’s lap and wrapped both hands around his mug of coffee. “Have you been up long?”

“A few hours,” Sherlock said, and Victor shuddered.

“I don’t know how you manage it, I really don’t,” he said with a grimace. “Do you have anything planned for today?”

“Not particularly -”

“Good,” Victor said enthusiastically. “We’re going out.”

“Out _where_?” Sherlock asked suspiciously. Victor smirked at him.

“You’ll see,” he said. Sherlock glared at him. “Come on, it’ll be _fun_. Besides, I’m going to be gone again for the next four days. I want to spend some time with you before I go.”

Sherlock groaned, but already knew that he was going to give in. 

“Fine,” he sighed. “By the way, your father wants you to call him sometime today.”

Victor lifted an eyebrow. 

“He called you?”

“No, I answered your phone.”

Victor rolled his eyes. “Meddling.”

“No, detective,” Sherlock corrected. “Are you going out there for Christmas?”

Victor shrugged, his face shuttering. “We’re trying to work it out. I’ll probably go after the actual holiday. I don’t want to be there when Gloria and her children are around.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding. Victor had always had a strong relationship with his parents, and he had been especially close to his father. Sherlock had known both of Victor’s parents, having met them one summer when he spent a month at the Trevor estate in Norfolk. He’d had a chance to observe the tight bond between father and son.

All of that fell apart, though, when Victor’s mother passed away. It was then that William Trevor revealed to his son that he had been living a separate life all these years; that he had another family with a woman named Gloria Scott, and that all of the business trips that he had taken during Victor’s childhood had in fact been ruses to go see her and his other children. 

The revelation had rocked the foundation of Victor’s world, and he had taken off for India two months after that. Distance, it seemed, had been the key to thawing the relationship between father and son. They would never be as close as they once had been, and there were things that Victor simply couldn’t do - like be in the same room with his father’s second wife or the half-siblings that had been conceived in secret. But he could talk to his father again, and he could even spend a few days at a time in the home he had grown up in.

“Do you want me to come with?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure where the suggestion came from. It was probably a remnant of John; one of the many bits of wisdom he had imparted upon Sherlock over the years. There were certain sacrifices one made for a loved one; there were certain tasks that were performed for the most important person in one’s life. And Sherlock was familiar already with the concept of sacrifice. Compared to jumping off a building, spending a tense Christmas with Victor’s family so he wouldn’t have to face them alone seemed trivial.

Victor stared at him for a long moment, seemingly torn. He looked equal parts touched and apprehensive, and Sherlock suddenly feared that he had been in error in making the suggestion.

“I can’t tell you how much that means, Sherlock,” Victor said finally, his voice thick with emotion. “But this year… I think I need to do this alone. I need to face him - and possibly _them_ \- on my own.”

“No, you don’t _have_ to,” Sherlock assured him quietly. “But I understand if you _want_ to. If you change your mind…”

He trailed off. Victor leaned over and kissed him gently. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright. 

“Thank you,” he said softly. “Come on. Let’s get going.”

 

Victor left for New Orleans early the next morning. 

Sherlock didn’t even hear him leave. He woke up alone in Victor’s bed around seven, and then he dozed for the next half an hour. He eventually pulled himself from the bed at eight, and showered and dressed with brisk efficiency. It felt strange to be in Victor’s flat without his friend present, but at the same time, it seemed very natural. The flat was too quiet without him, but it was only temporary. Victor would be home again in a few days.

_ Home _ . Sherlock felt an unbidden smile touch his lips at the thought. How easily that word had come to mind. He honestly hadn’t meant to label Victor’s flat as such, but he supposed it was true. This was home, and all because Victor was here.

Sherlock went out into the kitchen to fix himself a cup of coffee. He caught sight of a piece of paper on the immaculate kitchen table, though, and paused. 

_ See you in a few days _ , it read in Victor’s messy scrawl. 

And there, taped to the piece of paper just under his writing, was a key to his flat. 

\-----

Victor returned on a Thursday evening. He had just enough time to kick the door to 221B closed before Sherlock was upon him, pressing him up against the wall and kissing him senseless. 

“Er - hello,” he gasped in bemusement when they broke apart for air. “It’s good to see you, too. Miss me?”

Sherlock spent the next few hours showing Victor just _how_ much he had been missed. 

“You know, if _that’s_ the reception I’m going to get,” Victor murmured at one point, pressing a kiss to the side of Sherlock’s throat, “I think I should go out of town more often. How have things been?”

“Quiet.”

“Oh?” Victor started to trail kisses along Sherlock’s jaw. “I’d have thought you would be swimming in cases by now.”

“One successful case isn’t going to undo seven years of bad press,” Sherlock said dryly. Victor lifted his head to look at him, and he added, “Though I have had some inquiries, yes.”

Victor flashed him a grin. He stretched out half on top of Sherlock and rested his head on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock wrapped an arm around Victor’s shoulders, holding him close, and Victor let out a slow sigh.

“Vic?”

“Hmm?”

“The key wasn’t necessary.” Sherlock squeezed Victor’s shoulder. “But I appreciate it, nonetheless.”

He felt Victor smile against his chest.

“It’s preferable to you picking my locks. Use it anytime. I mean that.”

Victor slept soundly for the entire night and, once again, was awake well before Sherlock. He left for work shortly before seven. Sherlock woke up when the front door closed, and he quickly fell asleep again. 

He was pulled from slumber by a fist pounding on the flat’s door, and he sighed. He should have thought to give Victor a key in return; for all his skills, the man was utter shit at picking locks. Sherlock threw back the blankets and grabbed his dressing gown before padding out into the main room. He wondered what on Earth Victor had forgotten.

But it wasn’t Victor on the other side of the door. Rather, it was Lestrade. 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded, more surprised than anything else.

“We have a problem,” Lestrade said without preamble. 

Sherlock paused. It wasn’t like Lestrade to dive in so quickly. Usually he beat around the bush, trying to explain the mechanics of the situation or, even worse, trying to make _small talk_ with John.

But Lestrade was all business this morning, his face drawn and his lips set into a thin line. 

“Victor?” Sherlock asked, and Lestrade shook his head.

“No, he’s fine. Well - for the most part. I mean, physically -”

“Out with it, Lestrade,” Sherlock growled. Lestrade drew a deep breath.

“Christopher Bowers is missing.”


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock’s first thought was _oh, typical._

His second thought he voiced out loud: “We didn’t arrest the right men.”

“Yes, we did,” Lestrade said. “You know that as well as I. But this… plot, conspiracy, whatever it is, it’s more far-reaching than we first envisioned. Someone else must have masterminded the whole thing - or someone else was in on it with Vine and the bodyguard.”

“And their business with the Bowers family isn’t finished. Where’s Timothy?”

That question gave Lestrade pause. Evidently, he had been waiting for Sherlock to demand to be escorted to the crime scene.

“He’s at Victor’s flat,” Lestrade said. “We needed somewhere to place him while we tried to figure out what had happened. And Timothy’s… upset. I think Victor’s at a loss. Speaking of which…”

He trailed off.

“What is it?” Sherlock snapped, annoyed by Lestrade’s reticence. 

“Where were you last night?” Lestrade asked finally.

“Ah,” Sherlock said as realisation dawned. Of course. Lestrade needed to corroborate Victor’s alibi. “I was here, with Victor.”

“What time?”

“He came over at five, as soon as he got back from his trip. He didn’t leave until seven this morning.”

“And you two - er - stayed in the whole night?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade’s clumsy avoidance of the issue. “He’d been out of town on business for four days, Lestrade. Yesterday was his first day back. He didn’t leave the bedroom long enough for dinner, let alone to make it out to Kent and back. If you need further proof, however, you can always check the tyres on Victor’s car. The soil particles will correspond to those found only in London. He hasn’t taken it out of the city since before his trip.”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Well, um. Good, then. So, fancy taking a look at the scene?”

“I’m -” Sherlock stopped; paused. 

“Sherlock?” Lestrade prompted.

Sherlock grabbed his coat and mobile, making his decision in a split-second. “You’ve got people at the scene?”

“Yes,” Lestrade said, a frown cutting through his features. “We’re processing it now.”

“Make sure the photographs and notes are complete,” Sherlock instructed.

“They always are,” Lestrade said, a shade indignantly. 

Sherlock hummed noncommittally. “Send them here when you’re finished. I’ll look at them a bit later on.”

“But - what? Where are you going?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to answer as he pocketed his phone and vanished down the staircase. If Lestrade couldn’t figure that out on his own, then there truly was no hope for him. 

 

Victor didn’t answer the door when Sherlock knocked, and so he let himself into the flat without the express invitation.

“Sherlock,” Victor sighed from the kitchen, “when I don’t answer the door, that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to let yourself inside.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Sherlock huffed. “I followed your social convention; you refused to acknowledge it.”

“Knocking isn’t a guaranteed means of entry into a home.”

“I know. That’s why I used the key - which you told me to use anytime, by the way.”

Victor stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray sitting on the table and rose to greet him. It was a testament to Victor’s emotional state that he was smoking in the flat. Under normal circumstances, he would have done so discreetly, and outside. He tasted of ash and too much coffee, and Sherlock pulled back from the brief kiss with a grimace. 

“Yeah, I know,” Victor said, raking a hand through his hair. “Sorry.”

“When did you get the news?”

Victor turned away to close the small kitchen window, which he had been using to air out the room. “About an hour after I arrived at work this morning, so… nine, I suppose. Greg brought the news. That was kind of him; he didn’t have to do it.”

“You’ve taken the rest of the day off?” 

Victor nodded. “They’d already brought Timothy here, and I wasn’t going to leave him on his own. He’s in the spare bedroom, trying to get some rest. What are you doing here?”

Sherlock blinked at him. Wasn’t it obvious?

“You need me,” he said without thinking. Victor stared at him blankly.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” he said flatly. “And I lived with the kid for fourteen years. What makes you think you know any better?”

Sherlock didn’t have an answer for that.

“What happened?” he asked instead. He stripped off his coat and placed it over the back of a chair, and then rolled up his shirtsleeves. 

“I don’t know; I wasn’t there,” Victor pointed out unnecessarily. He sighed and rolled a shoulder, trying to work out aches brought on by stress. “The alarms were set off at Carlisle House at three. Took them six hours to figure out what to do with Timothy. And when Greg told me, all he said was that Christopher was missing and that there appeared to be foul play involved. He didn’t leave that house of his own accord.”

“So between that and Anthony’s murder…”

Victor nodded. “Yeah. It looks like someone’s targeting this family, every last one of them. And so now I’m in charge of Timothy’s overall wellbeing, not just his physical welfare - at least for now.”

He sighed helplessly and repeated, “I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m not cut out for this, Sherlock.”

At that moment, a door down the hall creaked open, and Victor straightened abruptly.

“Coffee?” he asked briskly, and Sherlock nodded. He set about making a pot, and by the time Timothy shuffled out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, three steaming mugs were sitting on the table.

Timothy eyed Sherlock warily, but said nothing. He picked up his mug, drank from it, and then muttered, “Hey.”

“How’re you feeling?” Victor asked quietly.

Timothy shook his head and then looked at Sherlock. “You here to find my dad?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock replied. “I was asking Victor some questions.”

Victor put a hand on Timothy’s shoulder. “Do you feel like some breakfast?”

Timothy contemplated it for a moment, but he ultimately shook his head. “I’ll be in my room.”

“Yeah, sport, go for it,” Victor said casually, even though Sherlock could tell that he was concerned. “I’m going to the shops later, so let me know if you need anything.”

Timothy gave a half-hearted nod and a wave, and then he disappeared back down the hall. 

 

Sherlock accompanied Victor to the shops later that afternoon, not because he particularly wanted to, but because he truly had nothing better to do. He had declined to look at the crime scene in favour of seeing Victor, and so all of his information was going to have to come secondhand. Lestrade and his team would be calling the moment they had anything interesting for Sherlock to look over, John was with Mary, and if Sherlock stayed behind at Victor’s flat, he would have to contend with a stroppy teenager and the security detail that had been left behind to watch over him.

“So I’m the least tedious option,” Victor mused as they walked the aisles of the nearest Tesco. “Thanks for that.”

“I rather think it’s a compliment.”

“Yes, you would, wouldn’t you,” Victor said dryly. “And the most ridiculous part of it is, I _know_ it’s a compliment. And I’m touched.”

“As you should be.”

Victor laughed weakly. He grabbed some milk and bread, which he handed off to Sherlock, and then consulted his list again. 

“It’s been too long since I was a teenager. I don’t have any idea what he wants to eat or how much of it to get.”

“Whatever you get, buy a lot of it,” Sherlock advised. When Victor turned to look at him, he shrugged. “Lestrade only has daughters, but he complains often about how much they eat. I believe it’s universal among teenagers.”

Victor snorted, but he cupped Sherlock’s cheek briefly in gratitude as he brushed past him in the aisle, and his touch was warm and tender. Sherlock suppressed a shiver. 

“Hell,” Victor muttered later as he was preparing to pay for the shopping, “look at that. I completely forgot we were so close to Christmas.”

He nodded to the tall windows of the shop, which overlooked another across the street. It had an extravagant Christmas display in its windows, even though the holiday was more than a month away. But it was the expression on Victor’s face that caught Sherlock’s eye. He looked suddenly drawn, and the small lines that framed his mouth deepened.

“You’re worried,” Sherlock said. And then he added, unnecessarily, “You’re worried about Timothy.”

Victor shrugged. He picked up two bags; Sherlock grabbed the third. “It’ll be his first holiday without his brother. And, God forbid, his first one without his father if this all goes to hell.”

“He’ll be placed with a relative in the next couple of days,” Sherlock said, entirely without thinking. Victor’s face shadowed, and Sherlock wished he could take back the words. He tried to ease the sudden pain in Victor’s face by adding, “He will at least have someone.”

“That’s true enough,” Victor allowed, and Sherlock didn’t say anything further on the topic. 

They were scarcely back in Victor’s flat when there was a brisk knock on the door, and Victor went to answer it.

“Oh, hullo, Greg,” he said, stepping aside to let Lestrade into the flat.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded. “You’re supposed to be investigating Bowers’ disappearance.”

“Yeah, thanks for that reminder, I had no idea,” Lestrade said impatiently. “Sorry to interrupt your date, _sunshine_ , but I have a few questions for Timothy. You know, regarding the disappearance of his father.”

“He’s in his - in the spare room,” Victor said. “He’s not handling it so well, Greg.”

“I’d be concerned if he was,” Lestrade said. His eyes softened slightly. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

Sherlock and Victor waited in silence for Lestrade's interview to conclude. Sherlock occupied himself with flipping through the newspaper that had been left on the kitchen table. Victor poured himself a cup of coffee and stared sightlessly at the opposite wall, only occasionally sipping from his drink. Half an hour passed before Lestrade reappeared in the kitchen. Sherlock and Victor rose to see him to the door.

“We’ll get him through this,” Lestrade said quietly as they stood in the foyer together. Victor nodded, though he didn’t appear to believe the words. “I’ll let you know if we need to ask him any follow-up questions.”

“Once I find out where he’s staying, I’ll let you know how to reach him,” Victor said. “He’s got some distant relatives in Wales, I think. The social worker will probably place him there, since it’s close. I haven’t heard from them yet, though, so I don’t know when that will be.”

Lestrade reached into the inside pocket of his sports jacket and pulled out several folded sheets of paper. 

“Yeah, I actually wanted to discuss that with you. This is a copy of one section of Elizabeth Bowers’ will,” he said quietly, handing the papers over to Victor. “It was delivered to me this morning by Mycroft Holmes.”

Victor blinked. “And what use do I have for it?”

“I think you’ll find it… pertains to the situation. It seems that Mrs Bowers had provisions in place should something happen to both her and her husband. Namely, she had a plan for who would take care of her children.”

“You can’t be serious,” Sherlock blurted, suddenly realising where this was going. They both turned to look at him, and he fell silent. 

“Mrs Bowers was certainly serious about it,” Lestrade said evenly. He turned back to Victor. “In the event that she and her husband became incapacitated - or worse - she wanted Stephen to take Anthony in. And you are responsible for Timothy. It seems as though Mrs Bowers felt that her son’s bodyguards were better suited for caring for her children than any blood relation might have been. You are now Timothy’s legal guardian, Victor - at least until we can find his father.”

Victor had gone very pale, and he was clutching the will with more force than was probably necessary. His fingers were bone-white.

“I take it she didn’t inform you of her plans,” Lestrade said, looking sympathetic. 

“No,” Victor said tightly. “I can’t believe - does Timothy know?”

“I do now.”

They all turned around to see Timothy standing in the entryway to the main room. He was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. 

“Is this what you want, Tim?” Victor asked quietly. “I won’t make you stay if you don’t want to. If you want to go stay with another relative, I’ll get in contact with a social worker -”

“I’m not leaving,” Timothy said. His jaw tightened. “I want to stay with you.”

Victor visibly swallowed. “Then that’s what you’ll do. He’s staying, Greg.”

He turned to look at Lestrade, who gave him a weak smile.

“I’d hoped you were going to say that,” he said.  “Thank you, Victor. We’ll be in touch.”

Lestrade left, and Victor exchanged a look with Sherlock. His eyes were bloodshot and sad, and Sherlock would have reached for him if they had been alone.

“Well,” he said finally, folding up the copy of the will and slipping it into his back pocket, “we should go get his things, shouldn’t we? Tim, what else do you need from the house?”

“Make a list. I’ll get in touch with Mycroft in the morning and have one of his people collect anything you might have left behind,” Sherlock said to Timothy, because at this point he would do anything to wipe the sorrow off Victor’s face. “It’s unlikely any of us would be able to access the area yet, given the nature of the crime scene, but Mycroft’s people always find a way.”

“Thank you,” Victor said, his voice thick, because Timothy seemed incapable of speech. 

Finally, Timothy pushed himself off the wall and approached Victor, who drew him into a tight hug. Timothy squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in Victor’s chest. Victor wrapped both arms around the teen and cradled the back of his head with one broad hand. 

“What do you need?” he whispered. 

Timothy shook his head. Victor threaded fingers through his hair.

“We’ll get through this,” he whispered. “I promise. It’s going to be okay.”

Sherlock slipped out of the flat to call Mycroft and make his request. Then, after casting one last look at Victor’s building, he turned towards the street and hailed a cab.

He doubted Victor would even notice that he had left.

\----

Victor spent the weekend getting Timothy settled.

Mycroft came by on Saturday afternoon with a team of five men and several boxes of Timothy’s items from Carlisle House. 

“Right, who the hell was that?” Timothy demanded when Mycroft and his men cleared out. “And why’s he got such a ridiculous name?”

Victor snorted. “That was Sherlock’s older brother, believe it or not.”

“Oh, I believe it,” Timothy said. “Right wanker, he is.”

“Timothy,” Victor scolded gently. Timothy, apart from the initial bout of melancholy that had enveloped him his first day in Victor’s flat, was largely back to being his usual self. He was short-tempered, though, and easily irritated, both of which were unusual for the teen. Victor had a feeling that he was channeling his grief and confusion into anger as a way of coping, and he tried not to reprimand Timothy for it too often.

“Have you heard anything from the police yet?”

Victor shook his head, and Timothy’s lips thinned. 

“Well, what about Sherlock?”

“Nothing from him, either. It’s only been a day, Tim. They need time to work.”

Two more days passed without any progress being made on the case. Lestrade called each morning with updates, and Sherlock texted a handful of times, but neither had anything of substance to say. Sherlock didn’t come by for two days in a row, and Victor couldn’t help feeling uneasy over this. He suspected he knew the reason for it, though - Sherlock had never been good at sharing, and he didn’t like that Victor’s attentions were now divided.

But even Timothy picked up on his absence, which surprised Victor.

“Where’s Sherlock, then?” he demanded one evening as he sat at the kitchen table, working on his homework. “He hasn’t been by.”

“He - er…” Victor trailed off. He couldn’t give Timothy the true reason for Sherlock’s absence, but suddenly he realised it could also be a misstep to reveal why Sherlock came over so often in the first place. He didn’t want to hide Sherlock, not by any means, but considering the influences Timothy had grown up with… “He’s actually not here all that often, Tim. He’s just a friend.”

Timothy scowled at him. “Liar. He’s your boyfriend, yeah? That means he comes by a lot. But he hasn’t been since I arrived.”

“Well - that’s not exactly - ” Victor broke off. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Timothy rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to deny it. I know you’re into blokes.”

“What?” Victor stared at him, stupefied. He was too stunned to attempt to deny it. “You do?”

“Yeah, ‘course I do. Bit obvious, isn’t it?”

“Well, I’d hoped not, considering your dad…” Victor stopped. “Timothy, did your father know?”

Timothy snorted. “‘Course he didn’t. You think I’m an idiot? He’d have got rid of you for sure if he found out.”

“But… you don’t care.”

Timothy shrugged. “Nah. Why should I care? Besides, Mum always said stuff like that didn’t matter, so long as everyone involved was happy. Dunno what got into Dad, though. Sorry he was such a… well.”

He trailed off, looking pained. Victor laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Your dad’s a good man,” he said quietly. “Maybe a bit misguided, but good. We’re going to find him, Tim.”

Timothy nodded, looking as though he didn’t quite believe it, and returned to his schoolwork.

\----

John was less than sympathetic about the whole ordeal, which did nothing but confuse Sherlock.

“The kid needs a home, Sherlock,” he said. “Victor’s the best equipped to give it to him. And face it - he’s obviously close to Timothy. I’m sure he’s secretly glad to have the boy in his care, even if he doesn’t like the circumstances that brought Timothy there.”

“But -” Sherlock paused. _But you don’t even like Victor._ “What do you care about what makes Victor happy?”

And then realisation dawned, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “Oh. I see. You’re just pleased that it will keep Victor away from me.”

“Fuck off,” John said mildly, and left. 

Mrs Hudson was similarly unhelpful - “He’s taken the boy in? Oh, how wonderful!” - and Molly just about burst into happy tears when Sherlock brought up the subject. 

He ran into Lestrade at the Yard the next afternoon, and Lestrade had barely glanced at him before he was saying, “For God's sake. Sit down before you fall over."

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, but he sank gratefully onto one of the chairs in front of Lestrade's desk. Lestrade crossed the room to shut his office door and then returned to his seat. 

"Right, let's chat," Lestrade said.

"What about?" Sherlock asked stiffly.

“This…” Lestrade trailed off, waving a hand vaguely. “Situation, I suppose.”

“Victor,” Sherlock said flatly.

“It can’t have been easy, having him come back. And, then, you know, this case on top of everything, and now him taking Timothy in…”

“What is it you want?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Ease up on Victor a little bit, eh?”

Sherlock blinked at him. He was so used to John’s protectiveness that this wasn’t what he was expecting.  “Come again?”

Lestrade’s gaze flicked away, and he said without making eye contact with Sherlock, “I think you’re asking more than he can give right now. Go easy on him, yeah? It’s obvious he cares for you, but he can’t be there all the time like you need him to be. He’s got Timothy now, and he’s - I’m sorry, Sherlock, but the boy is more important.”

Sherlock felt his jaw clench, but he said nothing in response.

“Don’t be so harsh on the guy, that’s all,” Lestrade went on. “He’s had to become a guardian practically overnight - and yes, I know it’s only until we find Bowers. Regardless, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and it terrifies him. Timothy needs him in ways he’s not used to being needed. He could probably use a little support.”

Sherlock swallowed hard.

“The thing is -” he stopped. The silence that followed was almost unbearable. 

“You’ve missed him,” Lestrade said in quiet concern and understanding. “I know. You want to spend time with him -”

“I love him,” Sherlock said softly. 

It was almost worth it, to see Lestrade’s eyes bulge like that.

Almost.

“You -” Lestrade was staring at him in amazement. Sherlock laced his fingers together, trying to quell the tremors that rippled through them.

“I love him,” he repeated, so quietly he wasn’t sure if Lestrade could hear. It didn’t matter. “I’ve always loved him. I just didn’t realise it until he came back. Until I saw how intolerable life without him had been.”

“Sherlock -”

“And when this is all over, he’s going to leave,” Sherlock went on, unable to stop himself. He was squeezing his hands together so tightly that his fingertips were bloodless. “And I’m not sure how I’m supposed to deal with that again.”

There was silence for a long while after this. Sherlock looked away. Lestrade watched him intently.

“Listen to me, son,” Lestrade said quietly, and Sherlock met his eyes out of sheer surprise, because Lestrade never called him that. “I don’t know this fellow, so I can’t say for sure what he’s going to do. But I can tell you this - I have _never_ , not _once_ , seen anyone look at you the way that he does. Not even John, in the beginning, looked at you like that. And that is not something that someone easily walks away from. All right?”

“You sound very sure of that,” Sherlock said when he found his voice again, but his words sounded oddly strained to his ears. 

“I’ve had a bit of experience with it, yeah,” Lestrade said cagily, and didn’t elaborate. “Just show Victor a little bit of leniency, that’s all. And he’ll come through for you.”

He thought for a moment, and added, “Maybe ease up on the Bowers boy, too. That kid means the world to Victor, and he’s had a hell of a time lately. He doesn’t need you getting tetchy because Victor’s attentions are divided. Got it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“He’d be a fool to leave you, you know,” Lestrade said gruffly. “Right out of his mind.”

Sherlock swallowed and, not knowing what to say to that - or what to make of the odd surge of gratitude that warmed his chest - finally muttered, “Thanks.”

Lestrade nodded, dismissing him, and Sherlock left the office.

\-----

It was rare anymore than Sherlock felt the effects of his alcohol consumption in the morning. 

Mostly, he had simply become used to the cotton-dry mouth and the headache behind his eyes. They felt almost normal at this point, and he couldn’t remember a time when he woke up actually feeling refreshed. This morning, however, he woke feeling nauseated, and the room tilted when he sat up. 

Sherlock took a cold shower, which helped slightly. He had stopped by a pub for a couple of drinks after his conversation with Lestrade yesterday, and he walked to Victor’s from there, which sobered him up for the most part. He’d had a few more drinks at Victor’s while Timothy worked on homework and Victor completed some expense reports, and he’d gone to bed around midnight. 

At least, that’s what Sherlock assumed. He knew he had stayed up later than both Timothy and Victor, and midnight was as good a guess as any. He didn’t actually remember leaving for bed. 

Victor was in the kitchen. He had already made coffee, and Sherlock poured a cup for himself gratefully. 

“Better?” Victor asked after Sherlock had taken a long swallow, though there was an unexpected edge to his voice.

“Indeed.” Sherlock took a grateful seat at the table. His limbs felt weak and shaky, and his mind was still foggy. 

“I don’t suppose you remember last night.” Victor was staring at him hard across the table. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. 

“I had a drink and went to bed,” he said. Victor gave a slow shake of his head. 

“Try three drinks,” he said, “and then you tried to go to sleep - in your _own_ bed. You tried to drive yourself back to Baker Street, Sherlock. In my car, no less.”

“Good thing you were here to stop me,” Sherlock said blandly. So that’s what he had been doing during his missing hours - interesting.  That had never happened before. 

A muscle jumped in Victor’s jaw. “That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Damn it, Sherlock, do you even _care_?”

“There’s not much I do care about anymore, Victor,” he said mildly. “You’re intelligent enough to have realised that by now.”

“You’re a functional alcoholic, Sherlock,” Victor snapped. “ _You’re_ self-aware enough to have realised this by now.”

“ _Functional_ being the operative word,” Sherlock pointed out dryly. Victor shook his head.

“It’s one thing for you to do this when it’s just the two of us. I don’t like it, but I’m not going to fight you on it. Not while this mess is going on, too.” Victor sighed heavily. “But I have Timothy to look after now, and for God knows how long.”

“Are you telling me I have to stop?” Sherlock asked, arching an incredulous eyebrow at Victor. 

Victor rolled his eyes and got to his feet to make himself another cup of coffee.

“You’re thirty-eight years old; I’m not telling you to do anything. You can figure that out well enough for yourself.” Victor sighed. “If you want to drink, you do it back at Baker Street. When you’re here, you’re nothing but sober, understood?”

Sherlock sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “I suppose you’ll be seeing a lot more of Baker Street, then.”

Victor snorted. “No, I don’t think that I will, actually. I’m a little tired of it all, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned at him, ice sliding into his stomach. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Victor pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really didn’t want to have this discussion -”

“Too bad,” Sherlock snapped. “We’re having it.”

“Fine.” Victor braced his hands on his hips, his expression stone. “I’m not telling you what to do with your life, because you’re not going to change unless you _want_ to. What I _am_ telling you is that things are going to be a little different now that Tim’s here. I’m not going to be going over to Baker Street all that often, if at all. He needs a stable home, and that’s not going to happen if I’m at your place every night. You want to see me, you come over here. If I’m going over to Baker Street, he’s probably coming with me. I can’t leave him on his own. He’s got an entire security detail that follows him around, and given what happened to Christopher, I don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone until this gets sorted out. All right? Which means -”

“Which means no drinking when you’re around,” Sherlock said, scowling. “I get it.”

“Do you?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Sherlock snarled. 

Victor’s harsh gaze softened somewhat. 

“All right,” he said finally. He sighed. “Look, I’ve got to get to work. Tim’s at school already; he’ll be back with the security detail around four. Was there anything in particular you wanted for dinner?”

Sherlock shook his head. The fight had drained out of him as quickly as it had come, and Lestrade’s words echoed in his ears.

_ Just show Victor a little bit of leniency. _

“Does the boy know about...” Sherlock trailed off, wondering how to put it when it didn’t yet have a name. It just _was_. “Does he know I spend the night on occasion?”

Victor actually looked faintly amused at this, which surprised him.

“We had a discussion about it,” he said. “Turns out, Christopher’s toxic rhetoric only poisoned his reputation. His children came out unscathed. Tim claims he always knew I was into blokes. Dunno if I believe that, but he doesn’t care that I take men to bed. You in particular… that’s going to take some getting used to for him. But I’m not going to keep you away, and he knows that.”

Victor slung his computer bag over his shoulder and grabbed his keys.

“Oh, and Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up.

“It’s not _the boy_. His name is Timothy.”

\-----

Lestrade called Sherlock to the Yard early the next morning. 

“How are things?” he asked when Sherlock appeared in his office.

“They’re… fine,” Sherlock decided on finally. He took a seat in one of the chairs sitting before Lestrade’s desk. “I - appreciated your input.”

Lestrade flashed him a rare, genuine smile - not the kind that he used for social functions, or the one that he used out of sympathy when talking to victims. This smile was warm and full of affection, and Sherlock was taken aback. 

“I’m glad. But if ever you need advice,” he said, “I’ve a bit of experience under my belt. Hullo, John.”

Sherlock turned in his seat to see John enter the office. They greeted one another, and John sat down. 

“Right, here’s what we have,” Lestrade said. He opened a file and spread out a series of photographs on the desk. “Friday morning, at around three, the alarms at Carlisle House were set off. When police arrived on the scene, it was to discover that Christopher Bowers was missing. It appears as though he did not leave of his own volition.”

Sherlock glanced at the photographs. They were mostly from Bowers’ bedroom, which was in complete disarray. Furniture had been knocked over, the bed was unmade, and the large window had been shattered.

“Broken window,” he muttered. “Large enough for someone to enter and exit through.”

“That’s different from the first crime,” John said. “Augustus Vine entered the house through one of the doors, and he left the same way.”

“Because there was someone on the inside manipulating the security system,” Lestrade pointed out. “We have that man in prison, now.”

“So… we think that there was someone else out there engineering this whole plot,” John said. “Whoever is behind all of this lost his man on the inside, but he’s still determined to go after Bowers himself. Even if he has to do it alone.”

“Right,” Lestrade said. He looked at Sherlock. “So who might that be? Theories?”

Sherlock was taken off-guard by the question, though he shouldn’t have been. He stared at Lestrade blankly for a second, trying to summon his thought processes. Where _should_ they begin? All he had to go on was the fact that it couldn’t be a coincidence that three different people in the same family had been targeted over the past three months. Now one was dead, one was missing, and one had suffered an attempt on his life. 

“Enemies,” he managed finally. “We should see if Bowers had made himself any enemies overseas that might have followed him back home.”

Sherlock couldn’t believe he was even making this suggestion. They had already done that the first time around, after Anthony’s death. Now the police needed something more obscure, a connection that no one else but Sherlock could make. 

Except Sherlock couldn’t give them that. His mind felt horribly, awfully blank. He felt ordinary.

Lestrade, to his credit, didn’t even blink. 

“Of course,” he said. “We’ll get right on it. I’ll call you the moment we have anything?”

“Do that,” Sherlock said, getting unsteadily to his feet, though he tried to hide just how shaken he truly was. “I’ll be at Baker Street.”

He stuck to scotch that evening. The first drink did little more than warm him slightly, which was a welcome side-effect, even if it wasn’t the one he had been seeking. The flat was habitually warm in the summer and cold in the winter. The former was expected, given that the flat had no air conditioning, and he usually made do with a combination of pedestal fans and open windows. The latter occurred despite the radiator that rattled away in the corner of the room. 

Sherlock shivered and poured himself another drink.

He had brought back from the Yard the updated list of Bowers’ enemies that had been compiled shortly after Anthony’s murder. A handful had been eliminated from the original list due to the fact that they were deceased, but for the most part the list was intact. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath between his teeth. 

He could look at motive all night if he wanted to, and it probably wouldn’t change a thing. What mattered, really, was who had the _opportunity_ to commit such an elaborate crime, and who had the means to pull it off. Someone on this list must have been working on this plan for a very long time. Which of them could have found Augustus Vine and hired him to stage a kidnapping and murder? Which of them could have contacted Mark Sanchez, the bodyguard who had been in the control room and let Vine into the house that evening? Which of them could have done all of that without being noticed?

Which of them could have then got into the house, this time without Sanchez’s aid, and kidnapped Christopher Bowers?

By the third drink, Sherlock was making some progress. He had pulled out his laptop and started tracking down the different men on the list. Six of them were currently out of the country; a further four had made public appearances on the day of Bowers’ kidnapping, and therefore couldn’t have been personally responsible for it.

Then again, Sherlock reasoned, it didn’t exactly matter, did it? Whoever had masterminded this whole plan hadn’t needed to be physically present the first time around. It was entirely possible that they once again hired someone to do the dirty work - and to take the fall if it all went wrong.

Drink number four, and Sherlock was starting to lose the steam he had built up. His focus drifted, and he found himself staring at the opposite wall for large amounts of time. He lost minutes on end as he stared sightlessly about the room, his mind drifting and thinking about nothing in particular.

Finally, he drained the rest of his glass and got to his feet, the bitter taste in the back of his mouth due to defeat rather than the lingering burn of the alcohol.

Maybe he would have better luck with the case tomorrow night.


	12. Chapter 12

Two weeks after Christopher Bowers’ disappearance, there was little that could be said about the case.

The various media outlets had grown tired of covering it, simply because they had nothing new to say, but at the same time it was the one news story that wouldn’t die away. A famous diplomat had vanished less than six months after his son’s murder - it was ripe fodder for speculation and gossip.

After a while, the papers stopped covering the story directly and instead focused their attentions on - once again - Sherlock. This time around, however, the articles were hopeful and optimistic. They seemed to all agree that Sherlock was the right person to be working on the case, and that if he couldn’t solve the mystery, then it was doubtful anyone else could.

“I wish I had their confidence,” Sherlock muttered to Victor one evening as they came back from a quick dinner down the street. It was well past midnight by now, but Sherlock had been at the Yard all evening - to no avail - and Victor had worked late. “I’ve gone over those crime scene photographs so many times that the images are burned into the inside of my eyelids. I see them in my sleep.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, longing for a drink. The cold night air stung his eyes and burned his lungs, and he wished for the warmth - and the clarity - that liquor usually brought.

“You’ll figure it out,” Victor said absently.

His mind was probably on Timothy - it usually was, nowadays. Despite his reservations, he had taken to his new role as guardian naturally. He kept up a normal routine for Timothy, making sure his homework was completed each evening and getting him off to school every morning. Sherlock hadn’t spent too much time around Victor’s flat since Timothy’s arrival, because he needed to _think_ and he couldn’t do that anymore when Victor was present. 

He couldn’t do it without the drink. And Victor knew that was the reason why Sherlock was staying away; he had made reference to it on a couple of occasions, obliquely, and Sherlock knew he was disappointed. But Victor hadn’t asked him to stop, and Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to make that request.

Unfortunately, the drink hadn’t been as effective lately as Sherlock had found it to be in the past. It loosened his mind, allowing him to see the connections that weren’t readily apparent to him whilst sober. But he was still having difficulty making sense of this case, and he had made no more progress than Lestrade and his team had. Bowers was still missing, and no one was turning out to be a favourable suspect. As a result, Sherlock started to spend the occasional night at Victor’s, for what use was the drinking if he couldn’t bring back the clever man he had been? 

That didn’t stop him from craving a drink, though, especially when his uselessness was so palpable and he wanted nothing more than to numb the realisation that he was no better equipped to solve this case than any other ordinary man.

On the few days that Sherlock did drop by Victor’s flat, Timothy usually made himself scarce. He spent his time holed up in his room, working on homework or reading. 

“Tim’s probably still awake,” Victor said as they approached his building, “so don’t worry about being quiet.”

“I see,” Sherlock said, completely uninterested, but Victor went on anyway.

“He’s probably up doing homework, most likely. I think it’s his way of coping,” Victor said. “By which I mean, he’s not coping with this well at all. He’s buried everything that’s happened to him, and he’s distracting himself with his work.”

“Is he?” Sherlock asked, now mildly intrigued. The normal human grieving process was something he had never experienced. In fact, it sounded as though Timothy’s coping mechanisms weren’t far from his own, and so it didn’t sound unusual to him. 

“He saw his brother gunned down in front of him, his mother died when he was nine, and now his father is missing. He just lost what was left of his family in less than four months, and the only thing he frets about is schoolwork,” Victor said. They trudged up the stairs to his flat. “He’s ignoring the trauma he’s been through, and I worry about him. It’s only a matter of time before it becomes too much for him. I’ve tried getting him to talk to someone, but - well. That didn’t go over well.”

Victor nodded to the two bodyguards standing watch outside his flat and unlocked the door. There were others in and around the building, Sherlock knew, but these were the only two he had seen so far tonight. 

It was close to one at this point, but the light in the kitchen was still on. Timothy was sitting at the table, his head resting on folded arms. An open textbook and a notebook sat by his elbow.

“Timothy,” Victor said with a sigh. Timothy didn’t stir. “Timothy. _Tim_. Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

He leaned down, close to Timothy’s ear, and said, “ _Timothy Charles.”_

Timothy woke with a start. Victor laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“Easy,” he said gently. “What are you still doing up?”

“Technically, he wasn’t _up_ until you woke him,” Sherlock pointed out. Victor gave him an exasperated look while Timothy snorted. 

“I have some work to finish,” Timothy said, scrubbing at his eyes. “Sorry. I’ll be quiet -”

“No,” Victor said calmly. He shut Timothy’s notebook and textbook and pushed them aside. “It’s one in the morning, Tim. You’re going to bed.”

“But -”

“You’re not doing yourself any favours if you’re doing your schoolwork while running on fumes,” Victor said reasonably. “And right now, I think a few solid hours of sleep will do you more good than a couple of decent marks will. All right? Bed, sport. Now.”

Timothy sighed but complied. When the door to his bedroom shut, Victor turned to Sherlock.

“See?” he said. His mouth was a thin, worried line. “He’s not dealing with this.”

\----

It wasn’t long before December was upon them. 

There was still very little progress being made in Bowers’ disappearance. Whoever had been responsible for the kidnapping had left no trace of himself behind - at least, no trace that Lestrade’s men could find. If Sherlock didn’t know any better, he’d have said no one else had been in that bedroom on the night of the kidnapping. But people did not just disappear into thin air - especially not after breaking a window - and so he knew he was missing something.

And Sherlock was so _tired_ of missing things - clues, details, _observations_. They had all eluded him for so long, and he despised it. He wished he could pinpoint the moment when his brain chemistry shifted; when he became ordinary. All he knew was that there was a Sherlock who had existed before the fall and one who had existed after, and they were two very different beings. 

He wanted his old self - his _right_ self - back.

Sherlock had never had need for a GP before. John had filled the role for the past eight years, and prior to that usually it was Lestrade who patched him up. And, before Lestrade came along, he had Victor. There had been childhood accidents, of course, as well as childhood illnesses, but his mother’s wealth had allowed for a personal family doctor who visited the Holmes estate. 

For the first time in his life, Sherlock was truly in over his head, and there was no one he knew personally who he was willing to call on for aid. He had been out of his depth with Moriarty, that much was true, but he’d had Molly and Mycroft to assist him then in his daring plan. Now, he couldn’t fathom asking either of them for help. It was too humiliating. His brain - his _mind_ , his very _being_ \- was betraying him, and it was awful. 

But now, of all times, Victor was back in his life. This was something Sherlock had only thought was possible in his dreams; he had long ago given up on the possibility of ever seeing his friend again. And at the same time that his mind was threatening to destroy him from the inside out, Victor was here, and Sherlock had never wanted to _want_ to live so badly before. 

He could have a second chance - he could share this life with Victor - if only his mind would let him. 

The appointment was early on a Tuesday morning, and the doctor was as different from John as one could get. She was tall, almost as tall as Sherlock, and soft-spoken where John was not. But she was blunt and firm, and had no qualms about using the terms Sherlock had fought so hard not to associate with himself. He swallowed down his bitter humiliation and said nothing about her diagnosis, and when it was all finally over, he left the exam room on shaky legs.

He returned to Victor’s flat three hours after he’d first left, drained and numb, and left the two prescription orders lying on the kitchen table. It was the closest he was going to get to being able to voice it out loud. 

Victor was in the shower. Sherlock felt as though he hadn’t slept in two days, and everything ached. He took three paracetamol and sought refuge in the still-warm sheets that smelled of the spice of Victor’s skin. He didn’t think he was going to be able to fall asleep, but he did, waking again as the mid-afternoon sun fell across the bed and heated the blankets to almost uncomfortable levels.

There was no sign of Victor in the flat. He couldn’t have left long ago, though. The half-finished mug of coffee by the sink was lukewarm, and he’d left his coat behind even though it was snowing. 

Sherlock poured himself a cup of coffee and settled at the table. It was only then that he noticed that the prescriptions he had left there earlier were gone, to be replaced by two bottles of medicine.

Oh. 

Sherlock hadn’t expected this, in all honesty. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but for Victor to do this - well. Perhaps it was his way of acknowledging the situation, just as Sherlock’s had been to leave the prescriptions lying there in the first place. He picked up the first bottle, opened it, and shook out the requisite two pills. He opened the second bottle and shook out one, and he took all three at once. 

And that was it. 

He sat there for some moments, feeling the phantom sensation of the pills in his throat but not much else. He sipped his coffee; he watched flakes of snow drift past the kitchen window. Nothing felt different. Not that he had been expecting anything to change in an instant, but still - he had expected _something_.

Victor appeared twenty minutes later, breezing into the flat and bringing the scent of cold air with him. His eyes had taken on that bright, glassy look of someone who had been out in the cold a shade too long, and his nose and the tips of his ears were pink. He’d jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and flakes of snow clung to his dark hair and black sweatshirt. He flashed Sherlock a bright smile and didn’t seem too concerned about the fact that Sherlock wasn’t able to muster more than a twitch of his lips. 

“I had to post some letters,” he said by way of explanation. He added unnecessarily, “It’s snowing.”

“I can see that.”

Victor put a hand on his shoulder as he passed behind Sherlock’s chair. “Feel like a walk later?”

He didn’t, not really, but Victor’s voice indicated that this was not a suggestion, and Sherlock didn’t have the energy to refuse.

They went out later that evening, under cover of darkness, which Sherlock was distinctly grateful for. 

“I should get a dog,” Victor mused at one point as they passed yet another late-night walker out with their pet, this time a large, black lab. 

“You need a house and a yard first,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Fair point.”

They strolled down a street that was lined with Christmas decorations, and shops on both sides of the street were decked out in all of their holiday glory. Victor paused before one of the brilliant windows. 

“I don’t suppose there’s any word.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. You’d have heard it first.”

Victor nodded absently. “I’d hoped - I love the kid, I really do, but I’d hoped we’d have his dad back by now. I didn’t want him to spend the holiday all alone.”

“He won’t be,” Sherlock pointed out matter-of-factly.

“It’s not the same.” Victor sighed, suddenly melancholy. “I guess it’s a good thing I stocked up on Christmas stuff a few weeks ago. Planning for the worst.”

They walked along.

“I had no idea Elizabeth was going to do it,” Victor said suddenly. “It didn’t ever cross my mind that she’d want us to take care of the kids, and I can’t believe she never told me. We were just bodyguards.”

“Do you think there’s any chance you’ll go against her wishes?” Sherlock didn’t know why he was asking. He knew the answer. But maybe he wanted to actually hear it from Victor.

“No,” Victor said at once. He didn’t even take a moment to think about it. “Unless Tim ultimately decides that he wants to live elsewhere, that is. Feeling tired?”

The subject change was so abrupt that Sherlock took a moment to catch up. 

“Yes,” he conceded in irritation. He _was_ feeling tired; more worn down than was usual, which was saying something. 

“Yeah, that’s bound to happen,” Victor said. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

\-----

Sherlock took two days off from working on the case - not because he particularly wanted to, but because his body had left him with very little choice. He slept most of the time. The few hours a day that he managed to get out of bed for, he usually spent in the armchair in front of the fireplace, trying to read as a way to distract himself from the random bouts of dizziness and nausea. 

He wasn’t feeling much better by the morning of the third day, but he needed to get out of Victor’s flat and focus on something other than how awful the medications were making him feel. He dropped by the Yard without a clear idea of what it was he wanted to do, and ended up in one of the research rooms. 

“Hey, stranger.”

Sherlock blinked and looked up from his computer. Sally Donovan was standing in the doorway. She arched an eyebrow at him. 

“Not used to seeing you here without an audience,” she said, though there wasn’t an edge to her words. She appeared slightly amused. “What are you doing?”

“Working on the Bowers case,” Sherlock said. He couldn’t help but add, in an undertone, “Sort of.”

“Yeah, Greg was mentioning that. Quite the mess you’ve all got on your hands, isn’t it?”

“He’s _Greg_ now, is he?”

Donovan snorted. “Since he’s not my boss anymore, yeah, he is. Do you need a hand? I’ve got half an hour.”

“I don’t even know what I’m looking for,” Sherlock admitted bitterly. Donovan came into the room and took a seat at the computer next to him. She glanced at his computer screen.

“Newspaper articles?” she asked. “Looking to see what the press said about Bowers in the months leading up to his disappearance? That seems like a good start to me. How far back have you gone?”

“Just through last May,” Sherlock said. 

“Right, you take the rest of the year. I’ll start looking through 2017,” Donovan said. 

They worked in companionable silence for close to an hour, until finally Donovan said, “I think I’ve got something.”

She pointed to an image on her screen - a slightly-blurry photograph that was unmistakably of Anthony. He was standing slightly behind his father, who was speaking at a podium, supposedly to a crowd that the photograph didn’t show. 

“There are a couple more,” Donovan went on. “They all show Christopher Bowers at a rally or protest of some kind, and his kids are always there with him.”

“What kind of rallies?” Sherlock asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

“For every unpopular cause under the sun, it would seem,” Donovan said. “Anti-abortion protests, rallies for a number of extremely unpopular politicians, you name it. The boys are even holding signs in a couple of the pictures. Look.”

Sherlock glanced over the articles, but his eyes were drawn to the photographs. Bowers always had his children close by, so that they would be photographed right along with him.

“It’s a sympathy ploy,” he said at last. “He brought his children with him in order to give his misguided causes a sympathetic face. And to show that they stood united as a family, which probably bolstered his own reputation. People like to see their political figures as involved parents.”

“He sounds like an arse,” Donovan said flatly. “You want copies of all of these?”

“Please.”

Victor was already home when Sherlock returned to his flat that evening. 

“Did you know about this?” Sherlock asked, tossing the file onto the kitchen table and opening it up so Victor could see the clippings. 

Victor paused his dinner preparations. He picked one of the photographs up, his eyes widening slightly as he skimmed the caption of the picture.

“No,” he said tightly. “What the hell? Where did you find this?”

“I was going through some of the newspaper databases at the Yard,” Sherlock said. “I wanted to see what kind of press Bowers received in the months leading up to this mess. Timothy!”

Timothy appeared in the kitchen a moment later, scowling.

“What?” he bit out. “I’m _busy_.”

“You can spare us a moment,” Sherlock said dryly. “What’s all this?”

He pointed to the newspaper clippings he had brought home from the Yard. Timothy glanced at them, and then at Victor. 

“Just family outings,” he said, looking genuinely confused. “Dad used to take us on them all the time, remember?”

A muscle leaped in Victor’s jaw. He looked up at Sherlock.

“That much is true,” he said, though it appeared to pain him to have to admit that. “Christopher would take the boys on occasional family outings, and no security was allowed to go with them. It was against everyone’s better judgment, but he was the boss. And I thought - I thought it meant _actual_ family outings. Not - _this_.”

Timothy looked confused. “What was it supposed to mean? We were helping Dad with his work.”

“I thought it meant he would actually be spending time with you two,” Victor said tightly. 

“He _was_ spending time with us,” Timothy pointed out reasonably. Victor looked stricken. 

“Never mind,” he said softly. “Thanks, Tim. Go back to your homework.”

Timothy left. Victor passed a hand over his face. 

“So we can conclude from this,” Sherlock said, taking the clipping from Victor’s hand and putting the file back together, “that Christopher was not above using his children for political gain.”

“And it might explain why the entire family was targeted, not just Christopher,” Victor said. “Who knows how many people saw them at those rallies, defending their dad’s words - or appearing to, at least. Jesus Christ.”

“I spoke with Lestrade before I left the Yard. He’s going to look into the backgrounds of the people who organized those rallies. He was already looking at the politicians Bowers backed, but there’s no hard evidence against any of them.” Sherlock set the file aside. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Victor said automatically, though he didn’t look it. He appeared shaken. “What the hell kind of childhood is that, having to follow your dad around and listen to him make hateful remarks? All in the name of _family_.”

He cleared his throat and abruptly changed the subject. “Dinner’s going to be ready soon. Are you hungry?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I’m going to have a lie-down, I think.”

Victor squeezed his hand as Sherlock passed by him, his touch grounding and reassuring.

\-----

Sherlock was a long time adjusting to the anti-depressants. 

Victor watched him closely, trying to observe all of the changes in his friend; mentally cataloguing them and comparing them against the Sherlock he had met again four months ago. The drinking, while it hadn’t stopped altogether, at least seemed to have tapered off somewhat. Sherlock was spending more and more time at Victor’s flat, where he was expressly forbidden from drinking, and it seemed as though he had adhered to those rules. The locks on Victor’s liquor cabinet, for one, didn’t appear to ever be tampered with, and his liquor bottles remained untouched. The nights Sherlock spent at Baker Street, Victor knew, were so that he could drink in peace. Victor didn’t like it, but Sherlock had followed his wishes closely. And he wasn’t going to change overnight, if he wanted to at all.

Fatigue seemed to be the problem that plagued Sherlock the most, though as that had also been a symptom of the illness, he didn’t much change his routine. He didn’t take as much care to hide his exhaustion this time, though. Perhaps that was because he honestly didn’t expect to fall asleep when he did. Victor had come upon him napping on the sofa in Baker Street on more than one occasion, and had even come home from work to discover Sherlock passed out in an armchair. 

Nausea was probably the most unpleasant of the side-effects, and the accompanying dizzy spells sometimes caught Sherlock completely off-guard. He wasn’t able to easily hide the fact that he wasn’t at his best, and now that he could no longer mask it, Victor knew he was feeling especially irritated. 

Sherlock slept through the modest Christmas celebration that Victor put together for Timothy, which was probably just as well. He would have done nothing but sneer at the small tree and the decorations and the traditions that he felt were utterly pointless. And Victor shuddered inwardly at the thought of Sherlock attending church. He wasn’t much of a religious man himself, and the Bowers hadn’t been a particularly observant family, but they had still attended on all the major holidays. Victor thought it might give Timothy a small sense of normalcy if he kept up with family tradition, even if they were attending an unfamiliar church. Victor knew exactly the kind of scene Sherlock would probably have made.

Besides, it was nice to spend some time just with Timothy. They had both been busy lately, with school on Timothy’s end and work on Victor’s, and the case was still weighing heavily on them both. But the holiday felt like a little break from it all, as though time had frozen and they could stop worrying about Christopher for a little while.

It wouldn’t last long. 

They returned to Victor’s flat after the church service that evening and Timothy immediately set about playing a new video game that Victor had bought for him. Victor sat in his usual armchair, occasionally reading but mostly distracted by the sounds and bright images from the television. 

The flat was too small for them both, really. It was a modest size, he supposed, but apart from their bedrooms there was very little privacy. Victor didn’t have an office or a study, and the kitchen was too small for the two of them. When Sherlock was over, all three of them spent a good amount of time tripping over one another in that room. 

Sherlock was right. He needed a house. And that was the first time Victor had allowed himself to think about the future; to think about a life with Timothy, and what he would need to do in order to make that happen. It wasn’t just enough to buy more groceries every week, and to make sure Timothy had a place to sleep. Timothy needed a home.

And Victor was going to have to provide that for him if they didn’t find Christopher Bowers soon. 

“What’s wrong with Sherlock?” Timothy’s question was abrupt and blunt. 

“Nothing, sport.” Victor turned a page in his book. 

“Why’s he sleep all the time?”

“He’s not feeling well.”

Timothy was quiet for a moment, absorbing this. Or perhaps he was simply distracted momentarily by his game. Whatever the reason, it was some moments before he said, “He doesn’t look sick.”

“He is.”

“He’s just trying to get you to pay attention to him.”

Victor stared at the back of Timothy’s head for a moment, trying to decide how to address this - or even if was worth addressing at all. Timothy was still reeling from the blow of his father’s disappearance, which came on the heels of his brother’s death. It was probably an off-hand comment; most likely, it was borne of deep-seated jealousy and fear, because the attentions of the only person he had left in his life were divided. He was afraid Victor might leave, and he hated Sherlock for having such an influence on Victor.

Still, Victor found that he couldn’t let the comment slide entirely. 

“Pause for a second, Tim,” he said, setting his book aside. Tim’s shoulders stiffened, but he complied. “Listen, the thing about Sherlock -”

He broke off. Tim’s brows drew together. 

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” he muttered tersely. “I don’t care.”

“You do, a bit. And I need to.” Victor scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Look, sometimes… sometimes people get sick, but you can’t tell. At least, not visibly. But that doesn’t mean they’re any less ill than, say, someone with the flu might appear to be. Okay?”

Timothy was staring at him blankly, and Victor beat back a flush at how ridiculous his words had sounded. _God_ , he wasn’t cut out for this. 

“Sherlock’s ill,” he said finally, “and he will be for the rest of his life. You might not be able to see it, but it’s there. But he's dealing with it. He's on medications, and they'll make him better.”

He could tell that this brought back uncomfortable memories of Elizabeth for Timothy, so he hastened to add, “He’ll survive, don’t worry.”

Though, considering how well Timothy and Sherlock got along, maybe that wasn’t as comforting as he’d hoped it would be. 

“Just - be civil to him, okay?” Victor finally said with a sigh. “Don’t antagonize him.”

“I don’t -”

“ _Yes_ , you do.”

Though to be fair, Victor mused as Timothy returned to his game, Sherlock did the same thing. Sometimes, it felt as though he had two teenagers in his flat instead of one. 

So much for not going grey early.

Sherlock had a brief period of lucidity shortly after Timothy had gone to bed, and he drifted into the main room just as Victor pulled out his laptop. He had various Christmas emails from the handful of university friends he still kept in contact with, and he needed to reserve train tickets to visit his father. 

“Those tickets aren’t going to buy themselves.”

Victor realised only then that he had been glaring at his computer screen. He didn’t even bother asking how Sherlock knew what he was doing. It was probably written in neon letters across his forehead.

“Come with me,” he said abruptly. 

Sherlock was sitting in the armchair opposite, a steaming mug in his hands. Victor couldn’t explain why, but the sight of Sherlock indulging in such a simple pleasure was heartening. 

“Don’t be absurd,” he said mildly. He propped his feet on an ottoman and took a long swallow from his mug. 

“It’s not absurd.” But it was, really. What had he been thinking - take both Sherlock _and_ Timothy out to see his father? What did he think this was, a family reunion? What a farce that was, casting Timothy in the role of his child and Sherlock in the role of spouse - good Lord.

“Just go,” Sherlock said shortly. “I’ll look after Timothy.”

“You?” Victor couldn’t keep from sounding aghast, though he truly had tried. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him. 

“Problem?”

“You don’t exactly get along.”

“I have no intention of allowing harm to befall him,” Sherlock said dryly, as though that alone should assuage all of Victor’s concerns. 

Victor stared moodily at the screen for some moments longer. Perhaps he could persuade his father to come to London to visit him instead. 

“Deal with it in the morning,” Victor muttered to himself, and he shut the laptop with a decisive click before setting it aside. He pushed himself out of the armchair and went over to the small Christmas tree. He picked up the sole remaining box and placed it in Sherlock’s lap before going into the kitchen. He considered his choices for a time - water, brandy, or hot chocolate - and, finding none of them appealing, returned to the main room with a packet of crisps instead. 

Sherlock was considering the present in his lap.

“You open it,” Victor said quietly, settling back into his chair. “In case you didn’t realise.”

“I know that,” Sherlock said waspishly, and Victor winced. He should be happy to see Sherlock with any sort of edge at all, after months of seeing him so troubled and, more recently, so numb. But he’d hoped -

He missed the Sherlock he’d known at university. While not exactly happy, he’d at least been… lively. 

It would take time, they said. Time and patience. 

Sherlock set aside his mug and peeled away the paper from the box with surprising care. 

“ _The Western Honey Bee,_ ” he read, almost to himself, as he opened the box. Victor came over and perched on the arm of the chair. Sherlock pulled out one of the magazines, carefully turning it over in his hands.

“Twelve issues, published in 1924,” Victor said. He draped an arm across Sherlock’s shoulders. “Thought you might like it.”

“I do,” Sherlock said quietly, his voice thick, and it was one of the rare times that he sounded moved. Victor swallowed hard. Slowly but surely, Sherlock was coming back; coming to life again. He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulders and dropped a kiss on top of his head.

“Happy Christmas.”

\-----

Sherlock and Timothy did not get along well. 

Timothy was of the opinion that Sherlock, in his own words, was “a gigantic _arse_.” Sherlock, whose own opinion of children in general was that they were only mildly interesting - and then only because he found the development of their minds fascinating - had no patience for Timothy’s angst at all.

And Victor was caught in the middle. 

His only saving grace was that it appeared as though Sherlock and Timothy were united by common fondness for _him_ , which largely kept them from strangling one another - at least, not when he was around to observe it. But even then, it seemed as though they only barely survived getting through the day while in one another’s presence.

It didn’t help that Timothy was still reeling from the death of his brother and being placed in a new home. He spent most of his time being angry at everyone and everything, and when he wasn’t angry, he was burying himself in schoolwork. He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, and had a habit of ditching his security detail whenever he needed to just _get away_. Victor couldn’t blame him, but it still near gave him a heart attack every time he got the phone call that Timothy was missing once again. He was never gone for more than thirty minutes at a time, though, which didn’t give Victor a lot of time to fret.

The Christmas holiday marked five weeks since Christopher’s disappearance, and even though Lestrade’s team was working under the assumption that Christopher was still alive somewhere, Victor had resigned himself to the fact that they probably weren’t going to find Christopher alive at this point. The first forty-eight hours after a disappearance are the most critical for finding a victim; now, at five weeks, it was looking grim for Christopher. He hoped they would at least be able to find a body, in the end. It would give Timothy at least a sliver of closure. 

He was greatly surprised, then, when he received a phone call from Greg Lestrade one dreary Saturday morning before the New Year.

“We need you down here,” the DI said without preamble. “You and Timothy both.”

Sherlock was already at the Yard, it turned out, though he wouldn’t give Victor any information. 

“Listen to Lestrade,” he said when Victor called him looking for more information. “Just get down here; quickly as you can.”

Timothy was quiet on the way to the Yard, and he turned bone-white when they walked into the conference room to find all of Lestrade’s team in addition to Sherlock and John already gathered there. 

“We received this package about an hour ago,” Lestrade said, holding up a small parcel. “There was a tape in it, and we need you to hear this. Carter?”

Sergeant Carter pressed a button on a small tape player sitting in the middle of the table. There was a hissing silence for a moment before a voice started to speak.

_ “My name is Christopher Bowers _ ,” a man said in a rasping voice. Timothy looked as though he might faint; Victor grabbed a chair and gently pushed him into it. “ _Husband of Elizabeth; father to Anthony - to Anthony and Timothy. I have been asked to make this recording in order to document - to document my many crimes. But first, they are telling me that I should say - I need to wish Timothy a happy Christmas. Because it’s the last time I will - I will ever be able to say that to him.”_

Carter shut off the recording. Lestrade looked grave.

“He goes on to list a number of policies he was involved in making,” he said quietly. “The tape runs for a total of twenty minutes. There are no other voices present.”

“Though it hasn’t been properly analyzed yet,” Sherlock put in. “You should get it to Forensics right away.”

“We will,” Lestrade said. He turned to Timothy, who was shaking slightly. His voice turned gentle. “I’m sorry you had to hear that, Timothy, but we need your reaction to it. If someone who knew your family well has kidnapped your father, they might have taken him somewhere familiar. Was there anything on that tape that sounded familiar to you? Any background sounds?”

Timothy shook his head. He pushed himself to his feet.

“I need to -” But he didn’t finish that sentence; just turned and walked out of the room. 

“What now?” Victor asked the room at large.

“We analyze the tape,” a sergeant he didn’t know told him. “Then we’ll proceed from there.”

“Right,” Victor said stiffly. “Next time you want to pull a piece of shit stunt like this, you tell me ahead of time. All right? That boy’s been through enough as it is. He didn’t need this.”

He found Timothy in the gents’ just down the hall. The teen was sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest and his forehead pressed against them. Victor crouched before him.

“Tim?” he said quietly. “Timmy, look at me.”

Timothy looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, but dry.

“Why did they do that?” he whispered. 

“They’re desperate to find your dad. They thought the shock of it might trigger something in your memory,” Victor lied easily. “I’m so sorry, lad. If I’d known they were going to do that, I wouldn’t have allowed it.”

“S’okay,” Timothy muttered. He put his head on his knees again; Victor carded fingers gently through his hair. “It’s not the worst part, you know.”

“What’s the worst part?”

“I miss him,” Timothy said softly, “and I don’t. He’s my _dad_ , and I want him back so badly… but I also don’t. Isn’t that horrible?”

“No,” Victor said softly. His relationship with his own father was just as complicated. “No, not at all. It’s perfectly all right to love someone and not like them.”

“But he’s my dad. I shouldn’t feel like this.” Timothy sniffed. “And I miss being at that _stupid_ house. Isn’t that funny?”

Victor squeezed the back of Timothy’s neck soothingly. 

“Tell you what,” he said finally. “I’ll talk to Sherlock in the morning. Maybe they’ll let us back onto the premises long enough for you to gather some more things from the house. It - it might help.”

Timothy considered this for a while. Finally, he slowly nodded.

Victor rocked back on his heels and pushed himself to his feet. He extended a hand down to Timothy and pulled him up as well. 

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said quietly, placing his fingers under Timothy’s chin and tilting his head up so that their gazes met. “Okay? I promise you that.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to Lestrade/Donovan in this part.

Sherlock managed to get an audience with the bodyguard who had been responsible for letting Augustus Vine into Carlisle House on the night of the killings in August. 

Mark Sanchez was a small man, shorter than was average, but his body was solid and compact. He would have had the advantage of speed and agility in a confrontation, which would have made him a useful asset to Bowers’ security detail. 

“I assume you’ve heard that your employer has been kidnapped,” Sherlock said. He shifted on the uncomfortable metal chair, crossing an ankle over his knee.

“I did,” Sanchez said simply. His expression didn’t change. He looked impassive.

“I want to know why that is.”

“I don’t know.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Sanchez.

“Obviously, you didn’t orchestrate the initial crime,” Sherlock said finally. “There was someone else on the outside issuing you instructions. When you failed to pull off the kidnapping of one of the children and got sent to prison, your _employer_ took over and decided to go after the father.”

“I acted alone,” Sanchez said. He stared at Sherlock as he said this, his gaze unwavering. 

“You’re lying,” Sherlock said flatly. “People always assume that maintaining eye contact is what one does when telling the truth. In actuality, when you’re telling the truth your gaze will waver because you will be remembering an event. You aren’t recalling anything in your memory. You didn’t act alone. You’re _lying_.”

“I’m not,” Sanchez said calmly, flatly. His tone didn’t change. 

“Who were you working for?” Sherlock pressed.

“Myself.”

Sherlock gave a disbelieving huff. Sanchez pushed himself to his feet, signaling an end to their meeting, and the officer guarding the interview room moved to open the door.

“There was no one on the outside orchestrating this plot,” Sanchez said before he left. “You’re wasting your time if you think there was.”

Sherlock recounted the story to John and Mary later that night as they dined together. Neither was able to shed very much light on the subject, though Mary raised an interesting point.

“You’ve been focusing on those who might have had wanted to exact revenge on Christopher Bowers,” she said. “But did you ever consider looking into those who might stand to _gain_ something by his reputation being further destroyed? Or his death?”

“I don’t know,” John said, looking at Sherlock, who shrugged. 

“Revenge has always seemed more likely, given the very personal and intimate nature of the crimes. Not to mention the tape that was sent to the Yard,” he said. “But I suppose it is worth looking into.”

The conversation about the case petered out, and John and Mary recounted some of their more interesting surgery stories from the week. And, when John excused himself at one point to take a phone call from his sister, Mary discreetly asked Sherlock how he was faring on his medications.

“The side effects have lessened,” Sherlock told her. 

“Well, that’s good to know. Otherwise, I was going to recommend you scaling back your dosage until your body adjusts.” Mary wiped her hands on a towel and crossed her arms, peering at him intently. “How are things with Victor?”

“Fine.”

“You forget that I’m not John.” Mary started to put away the plates she had washed and dried. “You can’t hide things from me, Sherlock. I can tell when you’re lying.”

Sherlock kicked his chair back on two legs, rocking slightly as he considered his answer.

“It’s been difficult, with Timothy around,” Sherlock admitted. “Actually, it’s just Timothy. _He’s_ difficult.”

“He’s a fourteen-year-old who saw his brother gunned down and has already suffered the loss of his mother. You can relate to the latter, if I remember correctly,” Mary pointed out. “And now his father is gone, and he’s living in a strange home. Of course he’s not having a good time of it.”

“Victor is too kind. The boy should have been sent to live with relatives.”

“Which would defy his mother’s wishes, as well as his own. And Victor’s, come to think of it.” Mary finished putting the dishes away and sat across from Sherlock at the table. “You make it seem like you don’t like this child.”

“I don’t.”

“Lying, Sherlock,” Mary said flatly. “I think there _is_ a part of you that’s concerned over his welfare. But more than that, I think you’re scared.”

Sherlock blinked at her.

“What could I possibly have to be scared of?” he asked incredulously.

“I think you see yourself in him. I think there’s something about Timothy that Victor can never understand, but you can. And seeing that part of yourself in him frightens you.”

John entered the room again, and Sherlock never did get a chance to ask Mary what exactly she meant by that.

\----

Victor traveled to Norfolk with Timothy shortly after the New Year, and they spent three days with Victor’s father. 

Sherlock, during that time, worked on a biology textbook he was supposed to be editing. On the second day of Victor’s absence, he was sent a simple case through his website. It wasn’t something he would have taken in the old days, but it was enough to keep him occupied for a short amount of time. John and Mary were out of town visiting some of Mary’s family, and Lestrade was tied up at the Yard. 

And besides, their company paled in comparison to Victor’s. Sherlock was finding that he didn’t like going more than a few days without seeing his friend. It was reminiscent of his final two years at university, when Victor would make the drive from London to Cambridge nearly every weekend to visit Sherlock, and when Sherlock would travel down to London to stay with Victor during term breaks. 

Looking back, it was a wonder that neither of them noticed the attraction that was so plainly there - or maybe it was only plain from this vantage point, when Sherlock was looking back on those years with the knowledge he had now. 

Victor and Timothy were due to arrive back in London sometime during the morning of the fifth. Sherlock found himself growing increasingly restless in the days leading up to their return, and when the day rolled around, he didn’t wait for Victor to contact him. 

_ 8 PM, Baker Street?  _

_ Best not,  _ Victor texted a quarter of an hour later. _It’s a plague house over here. Sport’s got the flu, which means I’m probably not far behind. I won’t risk getting you sick, too._

_ Why does he have the flu? _

_ He’s a kid, Sherlock. _

“That was a ridiculous answer,” Sherlock said later that night as he let himself into Victor’s flat. Victor stuck his head out of the kitchen to see who was there and sighed.

“You had to come all the way down here just to tell me that?”

“No.” Sherlock shoved a bag into his arms. “I had to come all the way down here to give you that.”

Victor peered into the bag. A weary smile touched his lips.

“While I appreciate the gesture, you could have been a _little_ more discriminating,” he said, sounding faintly amused as he surveyed the bag full of medications. “I don’t think anyone in this household is ever going to have need for prenatal vitamins.”

“Ah. True. Well. Perhaps I can put them to use in an experiment.”

They were interrupted by the bathroom door slamming down the hall, and then there came the faint sound of retching. Victor sighed, his face becoming drawn.

“That’s the third time this hour,” he said quietly. “I’m starting to be concerned. It’s not the fact that he can’t keep food down that worries me just yet, but he’s going to get severely dehydrated if that keeps up.”

“When did he fall ill?”

“Just this afternoon. I’m almost grateful it held off this long. That would have been a hellish journey back from Norfolk if he’d been this sick earlier.” Victor dug through the bag and pulled out a couple of different medications. He considered the labels for a moment, and then seemed to come to a decision. “I’ll try these. If he’s worse by tonight, do you think John would be up for stopping by?”

“I’ll give him a call,” Sherlock said, and Victor nodded gratefully before going to Timothy’s room.

When he returned twenty minutes later, he looked more haggard than Sherlock ever remembered seeing him. He settled next to Sherlock on the sofa.

“You look like hell,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“I know.” Victor leaned against him, and Sherlock wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Dad says hi, by the way. He still wants you to come out and visit sometime.”

“We can go out in the spring.” Sherlock nuzzled the side of Victor’s face and then kissed the shell of his ear. Victor was tense. “What is it?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing.” Victor propped his feet on the low table in front of them. “I don’t suppose there have been any developments.”

“I would have called you first thing.”

“I know.” Victor let out a slow sigh. “I got a few calls from Tim’s teachers while we were out there. They’re concerned.”

“About what? He does nothing but study.”

“His marks are excellent, true. But they say he’s withdrawn. He’s always been a quiet kid, but they seem to think this is different. He’s… absent. He’s falling asleep in class, too, which is unusual - though I know it’s because he stays up so damn late. And he’s angry. He’s short with people, even teachers. Lashes out occasionally.” Victor passed a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to help him, Sherlock.” 

“There’s something else on your mind.”

“Yeah. No.” Victor shook his head. “Yeah, all right, there is, but I don’t really know what to make of it. Timothy told me something interesting the day that tape was mailed to the Yard. He said that - well, essentially, he’s feeling conflicted. He misses his dad, and he wants him back - but at the same time, he doesn’t. I told him it’s all right; his feelings are perfectly valid. Hell, look at me and my dad. I love the man, but I spent years not wanting to be in the same room with him. Things still aren’t the same between us, even if they are better.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. 

“Bowers used those boys to bolster his reputation,” he said finally. “I’m not surprised that Timothy isn’t looking forward to being back in his care.”

“That’s not fair,” Victor said. “He loves those kids, Sherlock. He has all the warmth of a piece of paper, but that’s just the way that he is. He isn’t good at expressing his feelings, but he is fiercely protective of his children. He wants nothing more than the best for them.”

“And the best for them was dragging them along to hateful rallies and protests?”

Victor shook his head. He didn’t appear to have a response. 

They lapsed into silence after that. Victor dozed lightly against Sherlock for close to an hour, until he was roused by yet another bout of illness from Timothy. He got up off the sofa to take Timothy some water, and a little while after that he made a small bowl of soup for the teen. When he finally returned to the main room, he flashed Sherlock an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, mate, but I’m beat. I’m turning in. Are you staying?”

Sherlock stood. “Do you want me to?”

“Well, you’re likely already infected with whatever Tim’s got. I don’t suppose there’s any reason for me to keep you away now,” Victor said dryly. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

Sherlock spent the next several days at Victor’s flat. Timothy slowly recovered from his bout of illness during that time, and it was all thanks to Victor’s efforts. He missed an entire week of school, and Victor took three days off of work so that he could look after Timothy. He eventually got Timothy to the point where the boy could sleep comfortably through the night, and he even stopped throwing up every other meal. By the time Victor returned to work, Timothy could largely move about on his own, even though he spent the majority of his time sleeping. Sherlock didn’t need to do much more than make sure the boy was still breathing and drinking plenty of water, for which he was distinctly grateful.

“See?” Victor said tiredly one evening. He flashed Sherlock a tiny smile. “Piece of cake, this caring lark.”

“I don’t think that possible exposure to the plague is a satisfactory trade-off,” Sherlock said dryly, and Victor chuckled.

Sherlock woke later that night from the middle of a confused dream, and it took some moments of convincing before he finally realised that the fire and heat had only been in his mind. He let out a slow breath, wondering what had brought on such a strange dream. Probably one of Timothy’s action movies, which he had been playing nonstop in the main room once he had finally got to the point where he could drag himself from his bed to the sofa. 

Victor had started out the night pressed up against Sherlock’s back, but Sherlock noticed now that he was lying on the other side of the bed. His back was to Sherlock, and he had the blankets pulled up past his shoulders. He had effectively made a cocoon for himself in the bedding. 

Sherlock reached out a hand and pressed it against Victor’s back. Even through the layers of blankets and Victor’s t-shirt, Sherlock could feel that Victor was shivering. Heart sinking, Sherlock pushed himself up on an elbow so that he could reach around and press the heel of his hand to Victor’s forehead. Victor didn’t even twitch at the contact, which further confirmed Sherlock’s suspicions. He was ill. 

Sighing, Sherlock climbed out of bed and padded into the bathroom. He filled a glass of water for Victor and grabbed a couple of the medications he had been using on Timothy. Sherlock then laid them out on Victor’s bedside table, so they would be there when he woke up. There was no use in disturbing Victor right now; he needed to take all the sleep he could get before the illness truly kicked in.

Victor slept until mid-morning. Sherlock got up in search of coffee and food, and then he intended to check in with Lestrade about how the Yard was progressing on Christopher Bowers’ disappearance. Timothy was still asleep as well, and this afforded Sherlock some privacy and quiet.

Eventually, Sherlock heard the door to Victor’s adjoining bathroom open and close, and then the shower started up. It ran for an abnormal amount of time, though - a little over twice the amount of time Victor normally took with his showers. When it was finished, Sherlock heard Victor rummaging about in his room for a little while, and then silence again. Sherlock waited for half an hour before going to check on him.

“You’re ill,” he said bluntly. Victor was lying on top of the bedclothes, his hair damp, wearing a fresh t-shirt and pyjama bottoms.

“Well-spotted,” Victor said dryly. His voice was thick. He gave a violent shudder and slid under the bedclothes, shivering. 

“How high is your fever?”

“Thirty-nine,” Victor muttered. He was already half-asleep again.

“Did you take anything?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“See where this _caring lark_ will get you?” Sherlock laid a hand on his forehead, feeling the heat that radiated from his skin, and then brushed a few strands of damp hair out of Victor’s eyes. Victor blinked up at him blearily and then offered him a weak smile.

“I’m okay,” he said quietly. “This already isn’t nearly as bad as Tim had it.”

He was overcome then with a coughing fit. It was a deep, wet cough that rattled in his chest, and Sherlock winced inwardly.

“Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

Victor slept for the next four hours. Timothy woke once during that time, long enough to move from his bedroom to the main room, and fell asleep on the sofa soon after with the television on. 

Sherlock looked in on Victor in the mid-afternoon, knowing that he was likely to get worse before he got better, and found that Victor looked even more miserable now than he had that morning. He wasn’t fully asleep, and he was simultaneously sweating and shivering. His fever hadn’t changed, and he grunted, “ _No_ ,” when Sherlock asked if he wanted some food.

“You need to eat,” Sherlock pointed out reasonably. 

“I don’t really want to see my food again after I do, though,” Victor muttered. He kept his eyes closed while he talked to Sherlock, and he was keeping his head very still.

“Dizzy?”

Victor muttered an affirmative but didn’t nod. Sherlock stood there for a moment, uncertain of what to do from here, and finally decided that it was probably best to leave Victor alone.

He was just about to leave when Victor’s rasping voice called him back to the bed.

“Do me a favour,” he said. “Check on Tim for me?”

“He’s in the main room,” Sherlock said. “He obviously felt well enough to get out of bed.”

“Humour me,” Victor whispered. “Just ask how he’s feeling.”

Sherlock sighed but nodded, and Victor closed his eyes again.

The television was still on in the main room, though Timothy’s head was no longer visible above the back of the sofa. Sherlock padded over to the piece of furniture and glanced over it to see Timothy stretched out on the cushions, his head pillowed on his arms. He was fast asleep. 

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. He then walked over to a nearby chair and picked up a blanket that had been folded neatly over the back of it. He draped it over Timothy’s still form, feeling the heat radiate from the teen’s skin. He was still running a fever, then, though his sleep appeared to be at least somewhat peaceful. 

Victor was asleep when Sherlock looked in on him, as he expected, so he shut the door quietly and retreated to the kitchen. He considered heading back to Baker Street, but dismissed the thought almost immediately. He worked for a while on his papers, and when that became tiresome he sat in the living room, reading a book from Victor’s collection. Sherlock passed most of the afternoon in this manner; when he next looked up, night had fallen, and the flat was abnormally still. 

Timothy stirred around eight. He was a long time in waking, but eventually he got up off the sofa and shuffled into the bathroom down the hall. He showered and changed, coming back into the main room half an hour later wearing a different t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He took notice of Sherlock only then, and gave a weak wave before stretching out on the sofa again. 

“You should eat,” Sherlock said, repeating the advice he had given Victor because it sounded right. 

“I know,” Timothy murmured, but he didn’t move. He sounded weak.

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the sofa. He pressed the back of his hand to Timothy’s forehead, and then his palm. The skin simply felt warm - not hot or feverish. It felt normal. 

He went into the kitchen and made some toast, which he then brought out to the main room and set on the low table by the sofa.

“Eat,” he said gently, though Timothy eyed the food warily. Sherlock couldn’t blame him. Even if Timothy no longer felt nauseated, days of vomiting up nearly everything he ate was an off-putting experience. 

Slowly, Timothy sat up. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and then reached for the plate of toast, which he set on his lap and began to pick at. Sherlock sat down at the other end of the sofa.

“Where’s Victor?” Timothy asked finally. 

“He’s ill as well,” Sherlock said. “Likely, he is starting to come down with the illness you are just getting over.”

Timothy grimaced. 

“Bet we got it from Gloria,” he said. “She was sick while we were there.”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“Gloria?” he asked. “She was there when you visited William?”

Timothy nodded, giving Sherlock a perplexed look. “Yeah, ‘course she was. She’s Victor’s stepmother, right?”

Interesting. Victor hadn’t mentioned that Gloria had been present. Sherlock made a mental note to bring it up with Victor the next time he was conscious and functioning. 

“William says she was an actress,” Timothy was saying when Sherlock next tuned into the conversation. “Her name was Gloria Scott before she married, and she performed _all over_ the world. I looked it up.”

“Sounds like you got along quite well with her,” Sherlock said, feeling a twinge of sympathy for Victor. Timothy shrugged.

“She was nice,” he said. He nodded over at the door. “She made me a scarf.”

Sherlock glanced at the door, where a black-and-silver scarf was draped over Timothy’s hanging coat. 

“I see,” was all he said. 

“Don’t understand why Victor doesn’t like her,” Timothy said. “He doesn’t say so out loud, but I can tell.”

“They have never been terribly fond of one another,” Sherlock said as neutrally as he could.

“Gloria was really kind to him, though,” Timothy said, a frown cutting through his features. “And she’s his family.”

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. This was an issue Victor had struggled with constantly since his mother’s death and his father’s remarriage. Had William and Gloria’s relationship happened in a vacuum, without the context and background that Victor now knew existed, he would have been ecstatic for them. But it had all occurred in a most underhanded way, and Victor felt the sharp sting of that betrayal even now.

And _family_ didn’t mean everything, which was something Timothy knew first-hand, even if he refused to acknowledge the validity of his feelings. Mary’s words from their days-old conversation tugged unbidden at the back of Sherlock’s mind.

_ There’s something about Timothy that Victor can never understand, but you can. _

“Can I tell you something?” Sherlock asked finally. Timothy said nothing, with he took for an affirmative. “My father was a monster.”

Timothy blinked at him, caught off-guard. “What?”

Sherlock worried a thread on his sleeve for a moment, unsure how best to word what he had never even spoken to Victor.

“My father was… he was an awful man. He abused my mother for years, and they divorced when I was a child. I only found out the truth about him after her death.” Sherlock paused, gathering his thoughts. “When I found out, I thought it was the end of the world. The end of my world. But I had Victor by then, and I got through it. It’s mostly thanks to him.”

Sherlock leaned back against the sofa and added, “He writes to me occasionally. My father, that is.”

Timothy’s question was soft; tentative. “What do you do with the letters?”

“I burn them,” Sherlock admitted. He paused. “I’ve never told Victor that. I’ve never told him about any of this, actually. He thinks my father is dead, as a matter of fact.”

Timothy was quiet for a moment.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked finally.

“Victor told me about your discussion at the Yard the day the tape was sent in,” Sherlock said. Timothy grimaced and then scowled.

“So? What does that have to do with this?” he asked darkly.

“You are under no obligation to care about someone simply because they are a relation,” Sherlock said quietly. “The bonds of blood or the obligatory familial association by marriage - it all means very little, in the end. I got my name from my father, but I don’t use it. Gloria is Victor’s stepmother, but they will never be close. And you may have Christopher’s nose and ears, and someday you might have his stature, but your heart… that came from someone else entirely.”

Timothy’s eyes slid away from Sherlock’s face, and he looked pensive. Sherlock pushed himself to his feet.

“Get some sleep, Timothy,” he said quietly, and departed.

Victor spent the majority of the next two days in bed. He finally emerged from his bedroom at the end of the week, looking pale and drawn. A shower restored some colour to his face, and a light breakfast gave him some of his vitality back.

“Where’s Tim?” he finally asked when he was halfway through his second cup of coffee.

“At school,” Sherlock replied. Victor lifted an eyebrow. 

“You got him to school?” 

“I’m not completely incompetent when it comes to other human beings, you know,” Sherlock said heatedly. “Yes, I woke him for school and made sure he was out to the driver in time. I even managed to feed him while you were ill.”

Victor sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. Thank you for taking care of him. I don’t know how I would have managed without you.”

Sherlock turned to make his own cup of coffee. While his back was to Victor, he said carefully, “You didn’t tell me Gloria was there at your father’s.”

“I didn’t know myself until we arrived,” Victor said after a moment. “Usually she goes to stay with Katherine while I’m visiting. I guess I couldn’t have expected it to last forever, though, could I? I mean… she _is_ dad’s wife now.”

Sherlock turned around. Victor looked pained. 

“I’m tired of being made to feel like this is something I should have got over long ago,” Victor said quietly. “I’m tired of being treated like a child, as though my issues with Gloria - with them both - aren’t valid.”

He drew a deep breath and added, “And I’m tired of feeling like a little part of me dies every time I go home. My mother deserved better than what they did to her.”

Sherlock’s chest constricted at the look on Victor’s face. He had always been fond of Maria Trevor, and she had been kind to him at a time when Sherlock’s own world felt like it was unraveling. And then Victor’s world had come undone with her death when he was twenty-five, though for very different reasons. 

Victor passed a hand over his face and sighed.

“Sorry,” he said finally. He gave a sad smile. “I guess I get a bit maudlin during the holidays.”

He pushed himself to his feet and went over to the sink to pour himself a glass of water. Sherlock caught his hand as he passed him and squeezed. Words often failed him, and he didn’t always know quite how to convey his feelings through physical gestures, either. But Victor flashed him a grateful smile, and Sherlock knew he must have done something right.

\----

It was more than two weeks before the Yard had anything to say about the tape.

“When I say it was a tape, I mean that quite literally,” Lestrade said one mid-January afternoon. He was lunching with John, Sherlock, and Victor in his office. “The message was recorded on magnetic tape, which they stopped producing years ago, as you well know. We’re not sure if that’s a clue or not, but it certainly _is_ interesting. And frustrating. There’s only one lab in the country that has any experience handling tapes anymore. We had to ship it off to them, and they’re two hours away - not to mention currently struggling through two years of backlog.”

Victor poked at his beef, only half-listening to the meeting. He was still getting over his bout of illness and focusing in general was difficult at the moment. He could only concentrate on how sore he still felt, and how unappetizing his food was. He wondered how Timothy was faring in school today, after having missed so much of it recently. 

He wondered if he would see Sherlock tonight or, now that he was well enough to look after Timothy on his own, if Sherlock would excuse himself to spend some time with the bottle instead. 

“They’ve got a couple of other pending cases that are taking priority over Bowers’, so they’re analyzing our evidence bit by bit,” Lestrade was saying when Victor next tuned into the conversation. “We’re going to get a trickle of information from them rather than a flood, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“What have you learned so far?” Sherlock pressed.

“Remember how we mentioned that there weren’t any audible voices in the background?” Lestrade asked, and they nodded. “Well, it’s not just that there are no voices in the background - there’s _nobody_ in the background. The tape doesn’t have signs of another person’s movements, breathing, or voice in the background. The forensics technicians tell me they’re almost ninety-nine percent certain that Bowers was alone in a room when he made that recording.”

“Then who was telling him to record that message?” John asked. He looked at Sherlock. “Could it have been done remotely?”

Sherlock shrugged, looking unconvinced. “It’s possible, I suppose. It’s as likely as anything else we’ve come up with so far.”

“Were there any other clues in the background of that recording?” Victor asked, finally joining the conversation. “Trains, cars, planes, pedestrian traffic?”

Lestrade shook his head. “They’re still working on it. There’s nothing obvious, at least. Certainly nothing that can narrow it down to _where_ Bowers is being kept.”

Sherlock looked up sharply. 

“What if we can?” he asked suddenly. “What if we _can_ use the background noise to figure out where he made that recording?”

“How?” Lestrade demanded.

“The echoes,” Sherlock said, suddenly animated. “The way his voice reverberated off the walls - you can use that to determine the dimensions of the room, couldn’t you? I’m almost certain of it.”

Victor brightened slightly at that as well. “I’m certain they could. It’s simple physics - how long it takes Bowers’ voice to reach a wall and bounce back at him should tell you about the size of the room. I don’t know if it’ll help much, but it might serve to narrow down the possibilities.”

Lestrade made note of this on a piece of paper. “I’ll give them a call this afternoon and see if their equipment is sensitive enough to pick that out. Good idea, lads.”

All four of them returned to their food. Lestrade was distracted by a _ping_ that announced the arrival of an email on his computer, and he set about answering it. John and Sherlock chatted about their respective holidays whilst Victor continued to pick at his food. Sherlock let his hand come to rest on Victor’s thigh, and Victor felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with his spicy lunch.

“So how’re things with Timothy?” John asked eventually. Sherlock snorted.

“He’s delightful,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Victor glowered at him.

“He’s having a hard time adjusting to the situation, and he’s been ill,” Victor corrected. “Given the circumstances, I’d say he’s doing remarkably well. He’s keeping up with his schoolwork, he puts up with Sherlock being an utter arse -”

“I am _not_.”

“ - and he even helps out around the flat.” Victor poked at his food for a moment. “He’s having some, er, behavioural problems at school, but that’s understandable. Even if I don’t quite know how to help him through it.”

“Maybe the fact that we’re getting some information back from the tape will give him some peace of mind,” Lestrade said. He finished typing and sent off his email. Victor shrugged.

“You might be right,” he allowed, but he wasn’t convinced. Looking to steer the conversation away from Timothy, he asked, “Anyway, how was your holiday? You were out of town for a bit, yeah?”

“Three days,” Lestrade replied. He cracked a tiny smile. “Not very long, but worth it. Sally met the girls.”

“That’s wonderful,” Victor and John said at the same time. Sherlock looked confused.

“Sergeant Donovan?” And then it appeared to dawn on him. “Oh, Lestrade. You can’t be serious.”

Lestrade considered him for a moment, looking faintly amused, and then reached forward to flip around one of the framed photographs on his desk. 

“Yeah,” he said, unable to keep the smile off his face now as Sherlock glanced at the picture of Sally. “I’m serious. Eighteen months now.”

“Come on, Sherlock,” John said in exasperation as Lestrade put the photograph back. “You can’t tell me you didn’t notice! I mean, he’s been calling her by her first name for _months_ in front of you. And they both came to our Christmas party together last year.”

“Did they?” Sherlock said in disinterest. “I didn’t notice.”

“Of course you didn’t,” John said, clearly not believing him.

And Sherlock was doing a very good job of feigning nonchalance, but Victor could tell that he was perturbed that he hadn’t picked up on something so obvious. He reached over and gave Sherlock’s knee a quick, understanding squeeze, and Sherlock covered Victor’s hand with his own for a moment before drawing away.

Victor checked his watch, grimaced, and leaned forward to set his container of food on Lestrade’s desk next to Sherlock’s. He then took a long swallow from his bottle of water, trying to wash away some of the spice from his lunch. “I need to get back to work. Thanks for the break.”

“I’ll be at Baker Street tonight,” Sherlock said as Victor rose. Victor suppressed a sigh.

“All right. We’ll see you tomorrow, then.” 

They kissed briefly, and Victor hoped that disappointment didn’t show in his face when he pulled away. He knew that was code for Sherlock wanting to take a night to drink. Considering the fact that he was down to indulging on only one or two nights a week, this wasn’t terrible. Still, Victor wished he would seek help and quit altogether.

But Sherlock’s humility only extended so far. Victor was grateful that at least he was now on the anti-depressants. Small victories, he kept reminding himself. 

Tiny steps.


	14. Chapter 14

Lestrade’s team was soon occupied with more pressing cases than that of Christopher Bowers’ disappearance. The more interesting of the three murders that crossed Lestrade’s desk that month was that of a body that had been found along the Embankment, and Lestrade called on Sherlock to come and give them another pair of eyes. 

Sherlock was able to deduce from the man’s hands that he had been a carpenter, and given the fact that he was dressed for rain on an otherwise cloudless day, he had obviously come from at least three hours north of London. It was the best he could do, and the knowledge of that left a bitter taste in the back of Sherlock’s throat. However, it apparently was enough, and by the end of the afternoon Lestrade had a name for his victim.

There was very little work to be done on Bowers’ case at the moment. They were still waiting to hear back from the lab in Bristol, and until that happened, anything Sherlock might have come up with would have only been pure speculation. Two nights of holing himself up in Baker Street to drink had produced no results, though it had lessened his sense of utter failure and uselessness. But by the third, he was missing Victor’s presence, and the sense of calm brought on by the alcohol was bitterly temporary. And though Sherlock didn’t allow the thought to cross his mind for very long, he _did_ wonder how Timothy was faring.

Sherlock didn’t arrive at Victor’s flat until the early hours of the morning, and he let himself inside using the key Victor had given him. The foyer was dark, but Sherlock could see that there was a light on at the end of the short hallway. He shrugged out of his coat and toed off his shoes, briefly disappointed that the flat wasn’t quiet and still. Despite the time, he wasn’t tired, and he had hoped to have the main room to himself at this late hour. Victor was a light sleeper, and if Sherlock tried to read in bed, it would undoubtedly wake him.

Timothy was sitting on the sofa in the main room, bent over a textbook and notebook he had set on the table before him. The teen glanced up at Sherlock as he walked by, and gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement before returning to his work.

Sherlock fixed himself a cup of tea and spent some time in Victor’s small kitchen, savouring the quiet. He entertained briefly the thought of picking the lock on the liquor cabinet and adding a shot of alcohol to his tea, but the thought was fleeting and he dismissed it quickly. He was getting better at dismissing the urges, even though the temptation was always there. It helped to know that Victor would realise immediately what he’d done in the morning, and the fallout from that would be less than pleasant. 

All he needed right now was some solitude. But it was apparent that the main room wasn’t going to be vacated for some time, so his options were either to go to bed and disturb Victor, or to remain in the kitchen with no distractions. 

Neither was very appealing.

“It’s two in the morning,” Sherlock said as he re-entered the main room. He took a seat in an armchair by the window and cradled his mug of tea in both hands, savouring the warmth.

“Yes,” Timothy said distractedly. He didn’t look up from his work.

“I believe Victor would have instructed you to go to bed three hours ago.”

“He’s not my father.”

“He’s the closest thing you have to one.” 

Timothy flinched. 

“If nothing else,” Sherlock said, setting aside his tea and folding his hands in his lap, “you trust him more than your own father. And you confide in him. His opinion means something to you. You live in fear of disappointing him. Have I forgotten anything?”

“You’re the one who’s fucking him. You tell me,” Timothy snapped.

Sherlock snorted. Victor would have disapproved of the profanity and scolded Timothy for it. He saw no reason to, and let it slide. 

“You’ve been working on that all evening,” he observed instead, nodding at Timothy’s open book.

“Real genius, you are,” Timothy muttered darkly, dropping his eyes to his work. “Leave me alone. I have stuff to do.”

“I’m a chemist,” Sherlock said. Even from the other side of the room, he recognised the symbols and drawings in Timothy’s textbook. “I could help.”

Timothy scoffed.

“You’re a detective,” he said. “And mad.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “But first and foremost, I am a chemist. And you should take a look at the cover of that book.”

Timothy glanced at him, glowered, and then finally turned the book over so that he could see the cover. He stared at it for a moment, looked at Sherlock, and then glanced back at the cover. He flipped to the first few pages of the book, skimmed them, and then finally muttered, “I didn’t even notice.”

“Not many people do.” Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and walked into the kitchen to refill his mug. He got letters a few times a year from students who actually took notice of the cover of their textbooks, but for the most part his role as editor of the most widely-used chemistry textbook in the world went unnoticed. “Do you require assistance?”

“With what?”

“Your work.”

Timothy shrugged. Sherlock returned to the room and sat down next to him on the sofa. Timothy reluctantly pushed his notebook over to Sherlock, who glanced over the formulas and equations. He corrected a couple of the diagrams Timothy had drawn, but other than that the boy’s work was solid. 

"You have a talent," Sherlock said, matter-of-fact. He couldn't help but be impressed at how well Timothy grasped the concepts. "Have you considered pursuing this at university?"

Timothy shook his head. "Dad wouldn't have any of it. Thanks, though."

Timothy closed his textbook and notebook when he finally finished his work, but he didn’t make a move to leave the room. He stared sightlessly at the far wall for a moment, apparently thinking. 

“You should sleep,” Sherlock found himself saying, though he wasn’t entirely sure why that was. It sounded like something Victor would tell Timothy.

“Got stuff to do,” Timothy muttered. 

It was a poor attempt at a lie, and just like that, suddenly the reason for Timothy’s reluctance to sleep became clear. The words were an echo of the ones Sherlock had told John all those years ago, when upon his return from the dead he would spend night after night conducting experiments in the kitchen of 221B. His work then had about as much meaning as Timothy’s now, and ultimately, it served another purpose. 

It kept him from dreaming.

“Victor thinks you keep yourself busy so that you don’t have to think about what’s happened,” Sherlock told him.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. But he’s wrong. You do it so that you don’t have to sleep.” Sherlock looked at him. “What happens when you sleep, Timothy?”

Timothy pursed his lips but said nothing. 

“All right. I’ll tell you what happens,” Sherlock said. “You’re having nightmares.”

Timothy’s gaze darted away from his face. Sherlock took a long swallow of his now-cold tea, thinking. He and Timothy were more alike than he cared to admit out loud, and Timothy’s actions now mirrored his own in the weeks and months following his return from the dead. He had tried to bury all the horrors he had seen and the crimes he had committed, but such restraint was impossible to come by at night, when his subconscious allowed it all to surface again.

But the difference here was that Timothy had committed no crime. He had seen horrors that he had not been prepared for and certainly didn’t deserve, and he was suffering. 

And he was only fourteen.

“You are safe here,” Sherlock said softly when Timothy remained silent. “Whoever came after your father… they will not come after you. They will not be _able_ to come after you.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that it happened,” Timothy said quietly. His mouth twisted, and some of his composure started to crack. “I watched - I watched Tony _die_. I saw that man blow half his head off. It was - it was _horrible_.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “I’ve seen it happen before.”

Timothy stared at him. 

“How did you forget it?” he asked, a plea in his voice.

“I didn’t,” Sherlock answered quietly. Timothy looked stricken. “But the immediate shock of it fades. You don’t think it will happen, but it will.”

Sherlock drained the last of his tea and got to his feet. He paused.

“This sofa can be made into a bed,” he said after a moment. “I don’t know if you realise. You can push down the back and pull the seat forward; it’s fairly simple.”

Timothy blinked up at him, confused at this apparent non-sequitur. 

“This room is much closer to Victor’s bedroom than your own is,” Sherlock went on. “And this flat is designed such that sounds from the main room are audible in Victor’s. He is such a light sleeper that we have likely woken him even with this conversation. I know it doesn’t change what happened. But it might make you more comfortable to know that he can easily hear if something happens in this room. You _are_ safe here, Timothy. I mean that.”

Sherlock went to bed. He could hear Timothy shuffling around in the main room for some minutes after that, along with the tell-tale sounds of the sofa being converted. Victor woke at that and cast an inquisitive eye in Sherlock’s direction.

“He’s fine,” Sherlock assured softly. He slid an arm around Victor’s waist from behind and pressed up against his back. “Don’t worry.”

Eventually, the sounds in the other room ceased altogether, and it was only then that Sherlock allowed himself to drift off, hoping that Timothy had finally found a bit of peace - even if it was only temporary.

\----

Lestrade stopped by the next evening. 

Victor had only just returned from work, and he had made it as far as removing his necktie and peeling off his suit jacket before Lestrade arrived at the flat.

“Greg, come in,” Victor said, ushering him inside. There was a note of hope in his voice. Sherlock rose from his seat by the window. 

Lestrade brushed snow from his shoulders and shot them both an apologetic look.

“Sorry for interrupting your evening, lads,” he said, “but I just came to drop this off. I was on my way home from the Yard and thought Sherlock might like to look at this.”

He was holding a thick file. Victor appeared to deflate slightly.

“Inspector, please don’t tell me you came by just to say that you still don’t know anything,” Victor said. Lestrade looked regretful.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “We’ve had to put Bowers’ case on hold while we work through some new murders, so there isn’t a lot to say at this point. However, we’ve been working our way through a list of people who might have had a grudge against Christopher Bowers - the same list we were working through when we closed the murder case. Of that list, these are the most promising candidates. I thought Sherlock might like to have a look at them. There’s also some additional information from the tape that just came to us this afternoon. Look it over, Sherlock; let me know if it means anything to you.”

He handed over a thick folder, and Sherlock took it with a nod of thanks. 

Victor turned to ask Lestrade another question, but Sherlock was no longer listening. He opened the file and started rooting through its contents, glancing at each of the photographs as he flipped through it. Distantly, from down the hall, he heard the lift open. There were footfalls in the corridor that came to Victor’s door, and a moment later Timothy opened the door and slipped through. Victor and Lestrade didn’t take much notice of him. Victor reached out and clapped him absently on the shoulder as he passed, but his eyes were fixed on Lestrade. 

Sherlock frowned. It wasn’t like Timothy to take the lift, given that Victor’s flat was only two storeys up. He was wearing a hoodie today, his face largely obscured as a result, and his shoulders were hunched. He walked into the kitchen, as was his custom after school, and deposited his bag on a chair. As he did so, Sherlock caught sight of his hand. The knuckles were bruised and the skin on two of them had broken open. He was also moving stiffly, and even though he was inside now, he had yet to push back his hood.

“Timothy,” Sherlock said sharply, and Victor and Lestrade turned. Timothy froze for a moment before continuing to the refrigerator. “Timothy, turn around.”

Timothy paused with his hand on the refrigerator handle. Then, slowly, he turned around, glaring at Sherlock defiantly from the depths of his hood. 

“Put it down, Tim,” Victor said softly. 

“I’m fine,” TImothy said defensively. 

“That’s not encouraging if that’s the first thing you need to say to me,” Victor pointed out. “Come on, sport, let’s see the damage.”

Sighing, Timothy pushed his hood down. The skin around his right eye was bruised, and there was a cut above his left eyebrow. Blood leaked from a split lip and from his nose, and there was another bruise forming on his left cheekbone. 

“Who did this to you, son?” Lestrade asked, breaking the silence. Timothy shook his head.

“Schoolyard brawl,” Sherlock said finally. “Not an attacker, and not related to our case. Am I right?”

Timothy nodded reluctantly. Victor sighed.

“Hands. Let’s see them,” he said.

Timothy held out his hands so that Victor could see the damage to his knuckles. Victor lifted an eyebrow, looking vaguely impressed.

“Well,” he said finally, “at least you gave as good as you got.”

Timothy let out a quiet snort, causing more blood to drip from his nose. Victor turned to Lestrade.

“Thanks for coming over,” he said, shaking Lestrade’s hand. “We’ll have to continue this conversation later.”

“Right, yeah.” Lestrade turned to Sherlock. “Call us the moment you think you have anything. G’night, lads.”

“Sit down, Tim,” Victor instructed as soon as Lestrade had left. He pushed Timothy into a chair. “Right, let’s have a look at you. Can you move your fingers all right?”

Timothy flexed his hands to demonstrate, and Victor nodded. Nothing was broken, then. Sherlock slipped into the bathroom while Victor continued to question Timothy, and he emerged with a couple of flannels and a bowl of water. It was then that he retreated to the main room and his laptop while Victor continued to talk to Timothy. Every once in a while, he stole a glance into the kitchen to see Victor carefully wiping away the blood from Timothy’s face or holding the flannel to a wound until it stopped bleeding.

“Sherlock,” Victor called finally, “I think this might need stitches.”

Sherlock set his laptop aside and went to see what Victor was referring to. It was Timothy’s lip, apparently, which was still bleeding, though not profusely. He glanced at the clock.

“Let’s give it half an hour,” he said. “If it doesn’t seem to be better by then, I’ll call John.”

Timothy pressed the proffered flannel to his lip, and Victor regarded him sadly.

“Well, since we have some time to kill,” he said quietly, “you want to tell me what happened?”

Timothy dropped his gaze to the floor.

“You tell him,” Sherlock said mildly, “or I’ll do it for you. Don’t think I can’t read it on you plain as day. It’s glaringly obvious.”

Timothy scowled at him. 

“I didn’t start it,” Timothy said finally, his words slightly muffled by the pressure of the flannel against his lip. “But I did finish it.”

“What _happened_?” Victor pressed. Timothy gave a slow shrug. 

“It’s stupid,” Timothy muttered. “They’re nutters, the lot of them. Mark Collins and his two goons. They do this all the time - jumping people and stealing their books. Just for laughs. I was walking to the car when they jumped me. Mark’s the largest one. He pinned me to the ground and gave me this.” Timothy gestured to his split lip. 

“How did you get away?”

Timothy gave a wry smile around the flannel. “That bit of Jiu-Jitsu - the mount position? Grabbed his wrist and elbow, trapped his foot, and twisted so I was on top. Gave him a black eye and bloody nose, too, which was enough to make the other two run off. He wasn’t far behind.”

Victor looked torn between being faintly proud and disapproving. His eyes were hard, but his mouth twitched.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Sherlock asked, mildly impressed. Not many people he came across were aware of Jiu-Jitsu, much less were versed in its techniques. 

“I taught him,” Victor said quietly - and now he _was_ smiling, more with his eyes than with his mouth, pride written all over his face. 

“Mum and Dad wouldn’t let me take any kind of martial arts classes,” Timothy elaborated. “They thought it was pointless, since I had a security detail. But my friends were all doing it, and I was interested, so - Victor showed me.”

“Basic stuff, really. It wasn’t anything close to what he could have learned in a class,” Victor said to Sherlock. His mouth quirked when he looked back at Timothy. “I can’t believe you still remember.”

“Are you kidding? Best summer of my life,” Timothy said, grinning. 

Victor smiled back at him, but there was now a hint of sadness in his eyes. He pulled the flannel away from Timothy’s lip and inspected the injury.

“This looks okay,” he said after a moment. It was red and inflamed, but the bleeding had stopped. “Take a couple of paracetamol, Tim. That’ll help with the pain and swelling. We’ll get some ice on it after you’ve showered. Go on, get cleaned up.”

Timothy disappeared down the hall to his room, and a few minutes later the bathroom door closed and the shower started up. Victor pushed himself to his feet and started to clean up.

“Don’t suppose there’s much point in keeping this?” he asked even as he wrung out the flannel over the sink. “That blood will never come out.”

“Let it dry out and then throw it in the fireplace for kindling,” Sherlock said. “Are you all right?”

“Where the hell was his security detail?” Victor asked, suddenly vehement. “Why didn’t they intervene? His parents were right - he should never have had use for those skills.”

“He’s given them the slip on multiple occasions, and by his own admission,” Sherlock pointed out. “It’s possible that’s what happened this time.”

“Then the lot of them are incompetent fools,” Victor muttered darkly.

Sherlock turned back to the file folder Lestrade had brought over while Victor finished changing and washing up from work. It was hours before they spoke again. Victor made dinner, and he and Timothy ate while Sherlock continued to look through the file, over and over until the facts were cemented in his mind. He wasn’t sure what conclusions could be drawn from them all, though.

“They’ve analyzed a bit more of the tape,” he said finally. Victor was standing at the sink, washing the dishes from dinner. Timothy had long since gone to bed. “There was a clock striking while Bowers recorded his message.”

Victor looked around. “Really?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Apparently it was so faint that they had to filter out every other sound in order to make it out. But it’s definitely a clock from a nearby clock tower. And it was striking noon.”

Victor frowned and returned to his task. “What does that tell us?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m not sure. But - I think it might be possible to narrow down _which_ clock tower was ringing.”

“Oh?” Victor considered this for a moment. “By the frequency of the chimes?”

Sherlock nodded, already reaching for his mobile to call Lestrade. 

“It’s very distinctive. Every clock is tuned to a different frequency - not usually on purpose, it just works out that way. But the chiming clock on the tape might be too faint for the lab to analyze. Still, it’s worth an attempt, I suppose. Lestrade? It’s me. Yes, I _am_ bloody aware what time it is. Don’t worry about that right now. I have another idea for you.”

\----

Two days later, Sherlock got a call from Lestrade telling him that the lab analyzing the tape had taken Sherlock’s idea and tentatively measured the room where Bowers had recorded his message. Their results were only an approximation, as using sound waves in this manner was highly unusual, but Sherlock had been intrigued nonetheless that there was a result at all. He had taken off for the Yard immediately, despite the fact that it was well into the evening, and told Victor it was unlikely he would be back before the morning.

Victor wasn’t sure what woke him later that night, but it happened in an instant. One moment, he was curled up on Sherlock’s vacant side of the bed, sleeping in the seemingly-permanent impression of his lover’s body on the mattress; the next, he was sitting bolt-upright in the middle of the bed, heart in his throat and his hand on his gun. He pulled it out from under a pillow, slowly, taking great pains to do it quietly so he could listen.

This was too reminiscent of the night Anthony and Stephen had died, and so Victor didn’t bother waiting long for confirmation that he had heard something unusual. He slid from the bed and padded out into the kitchen, his bare feet silent on the lino. He kept his gun down, both hands wrapped around it, and his body tense, waiting for the next assault - whether it came out from around the corner or hidden in the shadows.

But Victor made it to the doorway unmolested, and he peered into the main room. The shadows were all familiar - the desk in the corner, the armchairs, the sofa-turned-bed, Timothy’s blanket-clad form.

His restless, blanket-clad from. And that was when Victor realised what it was that woke him. Timothy was tossing and turning on the mattress, whose old springs protested the movements.

Victor set aside his gun on a low table and knelt on the mattress.

“Timothy?” Victor leaned over Timothy and laid a hand on his shoulder. He shook the teen lightly. Timothy shuddered in his sleep. “Timmy, come on, wake up.”

Timothy woke all at once, gasping, and he immediately brought his arms up to his face in an effort to protect himself. Victor released him quickly and leaned back, holding up his hands.

“It’s me,” he assured softly. “It’s okay, Tim, it’s just me. You’re at home. You’re safe. It was just a dream.”

Victor sat down on the edge of the bed, and Timothy pushed himself into a sitting position. He was still breathing heavily, and Victor didn’t miss the hitch in his chest every time he drew breath. He laid a hand on Timothy’s back and rubbed lightly.

“M’sorry,” Timothy managed to gasp weakly. Victor shook his head.

“I wasn’t asleep. I just got home a little while ago.” It wasn’t entirely the truth, but Timothy didn’t need to know that. “What was it about?”

Timothy shook his head.

“All right.” Victor ruffled Timothy’s hair gently. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll be in my room if you need -”

“No.” Timothy’s hand shot out, lightning-quick, and he gripped Victor’s wrist. He let go just as fast, withdrawing to the center of the bed, but it was enough to make Victor sit back down again on the mattress.

“Tim?” Victor couldn’t see Timothy’s expression in the dark, but he could feel the fear and misery that rolled off him in waves. He reached for the teen, his hand finding Timothy’s shoulder, and Timothy shuddered. “Oh, sport…”

Victor pulled Timothy close and wrapped him in a loose embrace. Timothy sank against him, burying his face in Victor’s chest, and he wrapped his arms tightly around Victor’s middle. Victor threaded his fingers through Timothy’s hair, remembering a time when he had been so small that his head had fit into the palm of Victor’s hand.

Timothy shuddered in his arms. He was struggling not to make any sound, but every once in a while a sob slipped past his lips. Victor’s heart seized and he held Timothy tighter still, rubbing a hand across his back.

“Shh,” he whispered finally, making the quiet hushing sounds he remembered Elizabeth using when she tried to soothe her boys. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s _not_ okay,” Timothy said in a strangled voice. “Tony and Mum and Dad - they’re all _gone_. Oh, my God, they’re _all_ dead. Jesus _Christ_ -”

“Hey,” Victor said quietly, “we don’t know that about your dad -”

“ _He’s dead, too,_ ” Timothy wept.

“No.” Victor wrapped both his arms around Timothy now. He rested his cheek on Timothy’s head and said, “We don’t know anything at this point. Your dad’s a strong man. He’ll get through this.”

Timothy continued to weep, falling apart in Victor’s arms. Victor alternated between simply holding him and running a hand through his hair, and he kept up a litany of quiet assurances that he didn’t fully believe himself.

_ It’s going to be all right, Timothy. We’ll find your dad. We’ll get you through this. _

Timothy eventually cried himself into exhaustion and simply sat there, drained, in Victor’s arms. Victor swept his thumb across one damp, flushed cheek, and Timothy let out a slow sigh.

“Come on,” Victor said at last. He had no sense of how much time had passed; it must have been at least half an hour since he had woken. “You’re exhausted. Sleep. There’s school in the morning.”

Timothy nodded and silently crawled back under the blankets. Victor brushed his knuckles against Timothy’s jaw and stood.

“I’m just down the hall if you need anything,” he said quietly.

Victor retreated to the kitchen instead, though, and pulled out his computer. He kept the door opened just a sliver, enough so that he could hear Timothy eventually settle and go still with sleep. He worked for a while, despite the fact that his eyes were burning and his limbs ached with exhaustion. He thought Timothy might calm faster if he knew that Victor was only a few steps away.

When Victor next stuck his head out into the main room, it was nearly two in the morning and Timothy was deeply asleep. The faint light from the streetlamp just outside the windows filtered through the curtains, and Victor could see that Timothy had dislodged some of his blankets. He padded over to the sofa-bed and straightened out the mess, pulling the blankets up to Timothy’s shoulders to ward off the chill of the flat. He paused before leaving for his own room, long enough to rest a gentle hand on Timothy’s sleep-mussed hair.

“Sleep well, Timmy,” Victor whispered. “Please.”

 

Victor woke the next morning to find that Sherlock had arrived at the flat at some point in the intervening hours - though he hadn’t come to bed - and that he had woken Timothy for school. He listened to the two of them chatting amicably out in the kitchen for a moment before going about his morning routine.

Timothy had left for school by the time Victor had showered and dressed, but Sherlock was still in the kitchen. He was making himself what was undoubtedly his second or third cup of coffee. His laptop was open on the table, and there was a box sitting there as well.

“What’s this?” Victor asked as he came into the room, doing up his necktie. He peered into the box and noticed that it was filled with several bound leather books.

“Hm?” Sherlock looked around. “Oh. I went to Carlisle House yesterday after my meeting with Lestrade. I came across those in the library. I thought Timothy might have use for them.”

Victor flipped open one of the leather-bound tomes. His eyes widened.

“Pictures,” he murmured unnecessarily. He passed a hand over a family photograph, and four smiling faces looked up at him. Timothy looked to be about three or four. “Oh, Sherlock…”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said swiftly. “Sentiment.”

“Isn’t that what this is?” Victor asked in some bemusement.

“No. Timothy is grieving. His life is in upheaval, and it’s affecting his schoolwork, his friendships, and his behaviour.” Sherlock stirred sugar into his coffee. “A connection to home might bring him back into line.”

“Sentiment,” Victor muttered under his breath, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Victor turned another page in the album, and he came across a black-and-white photograph of a young toddler. He sighed. “Anthony was such a sweet kid.”

He passed a hand over his face. “Tim could really use him right now.”

“He has you.”

“I’m not the same.” Victor ran his hands through his hair. He could feel it stand on end. “He had a nightmare last night.”

“Yes. He’s been having those lately,” Sherlock said. Victor glanced at him sharply.

“What?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s a natural occurrence, given the circumstances. It’s why he was trying to distract himself with schoolwork - he didn’t want to sleep.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Victor asked, suddenly angry. “I could’ve -”

He broke off, and then shook his head. “Who am I kidding? No, I couldn’t have helped. I can’t even help him now. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“Yes, you do,” Sherlock said dismissively. “And I _did_ tell you.”

“When?” Victor demanded.

“When I suggested that he sleep in the main room.”

“But you only did that so I would hear if something happened to him -” Victor broke off as realisation dawned. He stared at Sherlock, and then gave a huff of disbelief. “Oh, my God. You made him think it was for his own safety. But instead, it was so that I could hear when he -”

Sherlock was smirking slightly behind his coffee mug. He took a long swallow of the hot liquid before speaking.

“I have my moments still, it seems,” he said dryly, looking faintly pleased. 

“You are unbelievable sometimes,” Victor said with a huff, though secretly he was touched - and grateful. “What were you doing at Carlisle House, by the way? Did you come across anything interesting?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I wanted to take a look at the control room. I needed to see how easy it would have been to hack into the system and turn off the security perimeter on the night of the initial two murders.”

“I could have told you that,” Victor said. “Every agent in Bowers’ employment has the codes to put the house into lockdown, but only three of us also had the authority to lift the security fence.”

“You, Stephen Wright, and Christopher Bowers,” Sherlock said. “I know. But someone else had the codes that night, because they used them in the control room while you and Bowers were sleeping and Wright was being gunned down. Hence, some sort of hacking must have occurred.”

“Have you figured out how they might have managed it?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Well, what about your meeting with Lestrade? How did that go?”

Sherlock shrugged. “The lab in Bristol thinks that the recording was made in a room no larger than the average standard bedroom. It could have been a bedroom in a flat, house, or a room in a hotel. The possibilities are endless. The only thing they’ve ruled out is abandoned warehouses and large banquet halls.”

His last sentence was dry. Victor squeezed his shoulder.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said bracingly.

“I’m sure,” Sherlock said, but he sounded unconvinced. He paused, and then asked, “Tell me, how much did you make while working for the Bowers family?”

Victor shrugged. “Enough to live on.”

“Even without taking your inheritance into consideration?”

Victor nodded. “I could have lived quite comfortably on my own with what they were giving me.”

“But not all of the guards were at your payscale,” Sherlock said. He ran a hand through his hair. “You and Wright… you two were Bowers’ longest-serving and most senior bodyguards at the time of the murders. You were also getting paid the most, in addition to the fact that the family provided you with food and lodgings.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek, thinking.

“I don’t often consider motive first and foremost,” he said after a moment. “What matters most is means and opportunity. Motive is widely variable - what one man would kill for, another wouldn’t even blink at. However… some motives are consistent across the board.”

“Sex or money,” Victor said. “Well, Bowers certainly had plenty of the latter. As for the former… I don’t think the thought even crossed his mind after Elizabeth died.”

“Would you know if he’d been seeing someone? Or if he’d been having an affair prior to her death?”

“I’d like to think so,” Victor said. “But he wasn’t gone from the estate much, and when he did leave, he went with an entire security detail. Nothing reached me through the grapevine, but if you want to know for sure, you’ll have to ask the men assigned to protect him specifically.”

“Money seems a more likely motive, then,” Sherlock said. “The original plan involved holding Timothy for ransom - at least, according to the men who tried to implement it.”

“But now…” Victor trailed off. “According to that tape, Bowers’ kidnappers aren’t interested in money. They’re interested in exposing his ‘crimes.’ We’ve been treating this as being related to the murders, but the motives are completely different.”

“It doesn’t make much sense either way,” Sherlock said. “Either these are two separate crimes that happened to strike the same family within months of each other - unlikely - or these are related crimes with two different motives. Which is also unlikely.”

Victor rubbed his forehead.

“I don’t know if it helps,” he said finally, “but the bodyguard who let Vine into the house was at the bottom of the payscale. He was only working two days a week on Christopher’s security detail. It certainly wasn’t enough to live on. I don’t know what else he did, if anything.”

“That _is_ interesting,” Sherlock mused. “Quite a gamble, isn’t it, assuming that your employer will pay a ransom to kidnappers? Or assuming that the police would let him, I should say. It might have guaranteed Sanchez a fortune, but would it have been worth the risk? He stood to lose everything if it went wrong - and lose he did.”

Victor’s mobile went off then, breaking the contemplative silence. He glanced at the screen and grimaced.

“Problems at the office already,” he said regretfully. He enjoyed these mornings with Sherlock, brief though his time usually was. “I need to go.”

He crossed over to Sherlock and pulled him into a loose embrace.

“Thank you for looking out for Timothy,” he said quietly. “I know it’s not been easy, but _I_ appreciate it.”

“He’s not so bad,” Sherlock allowed grudgingly. “He’s… an interesting child. He rather reminds me of you.”

“Funny,” Victor said, giving him a smile. “I was just about to say that he’s fairly reminiscent of you when we first met.”

“He’s rude, arrogant, and insufferable?” Sherlock asked with a smirk. 

“I was thinking more along the lines of, he’s brilliant in ways that can’t be measured,” Victor said. He dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. “And he’s a good kid, even though he doesn’t believe it.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock chastised half-heartedly. “Go on, go to work. I need to check in with the Yard. I’ll call if there are any interesting developments.”

Victor gave him one final kiss and left.


	15. Chapter 15

The lab said nothing about narrowing down the location of the clock tower, but a few days later Sherlock received a call from Lestrade that they had finished analyzing the tape.

“They think they’ve pulled every piece of information from it that they could,” he said. “They’re sorry it took so long, but -”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Now, what did they find?”

“The only other thing they could pull from the tape was the sound of a train passing through,” Lestrade said. “It’s one of the light trains, not a regular train.”

“There are only a dozen light trains in the country,” Sherlock muttered to himself. “And this one happened to be passing by a clock tower at noon.”

“Does that mean anything to you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to look into it. Let me know if they are able to narrow down that clock tower.”

“I wouldn’t hold out much hope, but I’ll keep you posted.”

Sherlock rang off and reached for the case file.

“What’re you doing?” Victor asked when he rose twenty minutes later. 

“Nothing.”

“I’m sure,” Victor said dryly, but he didn’t pursue it. He spent some moments clattering around in the kitchen, beginning the process of fixing breakfast, and Sherlock returned to his work. 

There was something that he was missing. He knew it; he could _feel_ it. He flipped through all of the crime scene photographs again, but nothing jumped out at him. 

Timothy wandered in an hour later. By that time, Sherlock and Victor had already eaten, and Sherlock was on his second cup of coffee. Timothy gave Victor a one-armed, drowsy hug and then made for the food.

Sherlock was going over the file for the fourth time that morning. This time, he laid the photographs out sequentially - not in the order in which the crime scene photographer had taken them as he moved throughout the house, but in approximate order of the events themselves. First, someone had breached the grounds at the south fence. Then, someone had disabled the alarms protecting the house. After that, someone had broken into Christopher Bowers’ room via the window - 

He stopped and peered at the photograph of the shattered glass. It littered the floor in front of the window, indicating the window had been broken from the outside. But the next picture showed a close-up from some of the glass shards on the floor, and the one after that showed the edges of glass left behind in the window frame. 

“Victor,” Sherlock said suddenly. “Look at this.”

“Hm?” Victor came to stand at his side, and Sherlock pointed at the photograph he was perusing. It was of the shattered glass; the shards that lay on the floor in front of the broken window.

“You’ve seen broken windows before,” Sherlock said. “What’s different about this one?”

“The edges of the shards look wrong,” Victor said finally, still peering at the photograph. “Not like I’m used to seeing them - _oh_.”

He glanced sharply at Sherlock. “Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me.”

Sherlock shook his head, already reaching for his mobile and dialing Lestrade’s number.

That window had been shattered from _inside_ Christopher Bowers’ room.

\----

“So what the hell does that mean?” John asked as he stared at the photograph Sherlock had handed him. “The window was broken from the inside. What does that tell us about the kidnapping? And what about that damn recording? How does that fit into all of this? What was the point of it?”

They were gathered in a conference room at the Yard. Sherlock wasn’t sure what good it would do them, but he found it easier to think when he could speak to another living being. This time, he had three other minds at his disposal.

And an abundance of clues he could make no sense from. 

“Maybe there _is_ no point to all of it,” Sherlock said at last. “All the evidence now seems to indicate that Bowers walked out of that house of his own volition. The broken window and the tape could have been a diversion. There was never any indication that anyone else had been in the bedroom when Bowers was kidnapped, and no one else was in the room when he made the recording.”

“But why?” Victor put in. “Why would he walk away?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Guilt? Grief? I don’t particularly care about the why, Victor. Only that the clues fit that theory.”

“The broken window could have been a message from Christopher,” Victor tried. “Maybe he wanted to make it abundantly clear that he wasn’t leaving of his own volition.”

“But how could he have managed to get away from his kidnappers long enough to break the window? That would have taken time,” Lestrade put in.

“And there weren’t any other signs of a violent struggle,” John pointed out. “Items had been knocked over, sure, but there’s no blood, and nothing else was broken apart from the window.”

“Maybe the kidnapper didn’t _need_ to force him to leave through violence,” Victor said. “What if Timothy had been threatened? Either Christopher had to leave the house under his own power, or something would happen to Timothy.”

There was silence for a moment.

“His last surviving child - hell, the last surviving member of his family,” Sherlock conceded grudgingly. “Love _is_ a vicious motivator.”

“And it’s not as though we’ve never seen that before,” Lestrade said quietly. “Someone pulling the strings behind the scenes, I mean. That was a signature move of Moriarty’s, for one thing. Forcing people to do things without ever having to lay a finger on them. He threatened their loved ones, too.”

“Maybe that’s what’s happening here, but that doesn’t bring us any closer to figuring out _who_ might have hated the man so badly that he went to these lengths to make Bowers suffer,” John said in frustration. He passed a hand over his face.

Lestrade’s mobile went off just then, and he stepped out of the room.

“What do we have from the recording?” Victor asked. It was a rhetorical question, because he then went to list them, ticking each item off with his fingers. “We have the size of the room - no larger than a standard bedroom. We know Christopher was alone when he made the message. We know it was noon. We know that a train happened to be passing by. We know that whoever forced him to make the recording had an issue with his policies as a diplomat. And we know a window was broken in his bedroom on the night of his disappearance.”

John ran a frustrated hand through his hair. 

‘We could check train schedules all over the country if we wanted,” he said in irritation. “But, hell, we don’t even know if he made this recording in the country at all!”

“Yes, we do.”

They all turned to see Lestrade breeze back into the room.

“Bless our boys in Bristol,” Lestrade said, pocketing his mobile. “They took one last crack at that recording for me. Guess what they discovered?”

He handed a piece of paper to Sherlock, who glanced at it.

“The location of the clock tower,” he breathed. And then barked, “Computer, _now_.”

John grabbed a nearby laptop and brought it to life. “What do you need?”

“Train schedules, Kent.” Sherlock came and stood over John’s shoulder, and he skimmed over the various links that were brought up by the search terms. He jabbed the screen with a finger. “There. Click on the light train schedules.”

Sherlock took the computer from him and skimmed through the time table. His suspicions were confirmed a second later, and he hastily pulled up a map.

“Sherlock, what’s going -”

“Quiet,” he hissed. He stared at the map for several seconds. “I just need - _there_.”

He straightened and shoved the laptop into Lestrade’s arms before starting to pace the room, his limbs thrumming with an energy he hadn’t felt in ages.

“That train we heard on the recording,” Sherlock said briskly, “is the southbound light train that passes through the middle of Kent at midday. More specifically than that, the chimes on the clock tower from the recording are tuned to a unique frequency that are only used by clock towers in Maidstone.”

“So where would that light train be at precisely noon?” Victor asked.

“Given that it makes a stop at 11:48 and another at 12:17…” Sherlock trailed off, mentally calculating the approximate mid-point between those two times. “At noon, it would be passing by the clock tower at the University for the Creative Arts.”

“So wherever Christopher Bowers made that recording, it was within spitting distance of that clock tower,” Lestrade said, and Sherlock nodded. “Right, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to put this all out on the news - the recording, Maidstone, _everything_. I want this all out there. I want them to _know_ that we’re looking in Maidstone, and that we’re focusing on that university.”

“Won’t that do more harm than good?” Victor asked. Lestrade shook his head. 

“No, I don’t think so. I want the kidnappers to sweat, to _panic_. It’s been two months since Bowers’ disappearance. Hiding what we know has got us nowhere. I think we need to use a different tactic this time.”

Sherlock nodded. “He’s right, Victor.”

“All right,” Victor said. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just wait,” Lestrade said. “Maybe don’t tell Timothy until we have something more concrete. Hopefully… the next time we speak, it will be because I’m telling you we have him. But let’s not go giving Timothy false hopes just yet.”

Victor looked at Sherlock. “Are you going to stay here?”

Sherlock hesitated. Had he been the man he was before his fall, he would have insisted on accompanying Lestrade’s men to Maidstone and searching right along with them. 

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m coming with you. Lestrade, you know how to reach me.”

Timothy was home from school by the time they made it back to Victor’s flat.

“Where the hell have you two been, hey?” Timothy asked, though he only appeared slightly irritated. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the bodyguard who was standing inconspicuously in the corner of the kitchen. “You left me alone with these goons.”

“You’ll live,” Victor said dryly. He nodded to the bodyguard, who took the silent request and started to leave the room. “Thanks, David. We’re okay for now.”

Victor had called Timothy’s security detail on their way back from the Yard and instructed that they not leave Timothy alone. News that they were looking for Bowers in Kent had already hit the radio; it would be on the evening news as well, and in the papers by tomorrow morning. Victor worried about retaliation.

Evidently, though, Timothy hadn’t heard anything out of the ordinary yet. He gave Victor a puzzled look as Tom left the kitchen and asked, “So what the hell was that all about anyway?”

“Language,” Victor scolded half-heartedly. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Can we go out?”

“No,” Victor and Sherlock answered at the same time, and Timothy’s eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline. 

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Takeaway?”

“We’ve been practically living on takeaway lately, Tim.”

“Yeah, that and pasta, which I’m pretty sure is the only meal you know how to make,” Timothy said. Victor fell silent.

“Fair point,” he conceded finally, a small smile touching his lips. “Though it’s more because I favour speed over variation. I’m sorry, sport. How does chicken sound?”

Timothy approved, and he disappeared into his room to do his homework while Victor set about cooking the meal. Sherlock sat down at the table and kicked his chair back on two legs. He crossed his arms and tapped a finger against his elbow, thinking. It would take Lestrade’s men an hour to get to Kent, though they had probably mobilized the local force by now. 

“We won’t hear anything for at least an hour, given how long it takes them to get to Maidstone,” Victor said suddenly, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts.

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Do you think there’s any chance they’ll find him alive after all this time?”

Sherlock gave a slow shrug.

“That’s the pretense Lestrade will be operating under,” he said. “But I can’t imagine why the kidnappers, whoever they are, need him alive after he made that tape.”

“Yeah,” Victor said sadly. “I hope - if nothing else, I hope they at least find the body. For Tim’s sake.”

They made it through dinner without any news, though Victor jumped each time a mobile went off - once it was Timothy’s, and the other time it was John calling Sherlock for updates. When the meal was over, Timothy went back to his room, and Sherlock and Victor settled in to wait again.

“It’s killing me, not telling him,” Victor admitted as he cleaned the dishes. 

“Would you rather he know and be hounding you for answers?” Sherlock pointed out. “It’s best this way.”

His mobile went off then, and Sherlock answered it automatically without looking at the display. It was Lestrade, and Sherlock immediately put the phone on speaker.

“I wanted you to be the first to know,” Lestrade said. He sounded breathless. “Is Victor there, too?”

“I’m here, Greg,” Victor said quickly, abandoning the dish he was cleaning. 

“Is it just you two in the room?”

“Yes,” Victor said as Sherlock threw a precautionary glance over his shoulder. His voice took on a note of panic. “Why, what’s happened?”

“We’ve got him,” Lestrade said. “We’ve got Bowers, and he’s alive. He’s been shot, but he’s alive. He’s on his way to a hospital right now. Kidnappers eluded us, damn them to hell, but we at least have our victim in one piece, more or less.”

“What happened?” Sherlock demanded. Victor sagged, his hand finding the counter for support.

“It’s the damnedest thing. You’ll probably want to come out and have a look for yourself, but it looks like they were keeping him in the Warwick Hotel. They’ve been staked out here for ages - probably since the night of the kidnapping. They must have panicked when they heard about us narrowing down our search to Maidstone. They shot him and fled. Someone overheard the shooting and called it in, and we were called out once the first responders recognised Bowers.” Lestrade let out a slow breath. “Listen, I need to go, but I’ll text you the name of the hospital. Timothy’s probably going to want to see his dad right away, yeah?”

“Thank you, Greg,” Victor said fervently. “Thank you - I don’t know what to say -”

“I’m just doing my job, son, and it’s not over yet,” Lestrade said firmly. “We’ll be in touch.”

He rang off. Victor called for Timothy while Sherlock plugged the name of the hospital that Lestrade immediately sent to him into his phone, calling up directions. 

“What’s going on?” Timothy asked as he skidded into the room, looking panicked at the note of urgency in Victor’s voice.

“We’ve got your dad, Tim,” Victor said. Timothy’s eyes widened, and he went white. “We’ve got him, and he’s going to be okay. He’s in hospital -”

“Hospital?” Timothy squeaked. 

“He was shot,” Victor said bluntly. “But he’s all right. He’s going to make a full recovery.”

Timothy turned questioning eyes on Sherlock. “And you found him?”

“Lestrade helped,” Sherlock admitted. “I merely provided him with the exact location.”

Sherlock’s miserable attempt at modesty was lost on Timothy, who managed a strangled, “Thanks.”

Timothy turned back to Victor. “When do I get to see him?”

“I’m calling the hospital now,” Sherlock said as he punched the number into his mobile. “He might be in surgery at the moment.”

Bowers was indeed in surgery, and he wasn’t expected to be finished for at least another six hours. Victor helped Timothy pack a bag, and they set off for the hospital. Sherlock went to the Yard.

“Give me all the photographs from the scene,” he said, breezing into Lestrade’s office. Lestrade was on the phone, but he nodded at his desk. All of the relevant photographs had already been laid out for Sherlock to peruse. He sifted through them. It appeared as though Bowers had been kept in a hotel room. But there were no restraints, no bonds of any kind. He looked to have been there for the entirety of the two months of his disappearance. 

“He was alone,” Lestrade said as soon as hung up the phone. “He wasn’t forced to stay in that room, and no one was there with him.”

“He wasn’t forced _physically_ ,” Sherlock corrected. “Someone else must have been threatening him.”

“You know, in all these months, no matter how close we seem to get to solving this, _that_ question has remained the same,” Lestrade said in frustration. Sherlock nodded.

“Who is behind all of this?”

\-----   
Christopher Bowers remained unconscious for two days.

Timothy would have kept watch at his father’s bedside the entire time if Victor had let him, but each night Victor took him back to his flat for a proper dinner and some rest. Finally, on the morning of the third day, Timothy arrived at the hospital to discover that his dad was awake and talking. 

Victor left him there for the entirety of the morning. He would have let the boy stay longer, but the doctors had told him that they didn’t want Bowers to be exhausted by all the visiting. In the meantime, he accompanied Sherlock to the Yard to work out some final details with Lestrade. 

“Timothy will remain in Victor’s custody until Bowers is released from the hospital,” Lestrade told them over takeaway in his office. “At the moment, it looks like that means he’ll be with you until the end of the week.”

The words, though expected, landed like a blow, and Victor struggled to keep his face neutral.

“How are you progressing on figuring out who did this?” Victor asked. Lestrade shook his head.

“Same place we were six months ago. We have a list of people with motive, but we haven’t any solid evidence against any of them.” Lestrade chewed for a moment. “How’s Timothy doing, by the way?”

“Not spectacular. Better, though, now that his dad’s woken up,” Victor said. He consulted his own watch and then turned to Sherlock. “Actually, speaking of that, I need to go pick him up.”

“I’m staying,” Sherlock said.

“I figured as much. We’ll see you tonight?”

“Yes, but not until late.”

“Okay.” Victor gave him a brief parting kiss. “We’ll see you then. Bye, Greg.”

Timothy was quiet when Victor picked him up from the hospital twenty minutes later. 

“How was it?” Victor asked as Timothy climbed into the car. 

“Fine,” Timothy said. 

“Did you get a chance to talk?”

“For a while. He didn’t stay awake long.” Timothy worried a thread on the sleeve of his jacket. 

“He’s going to have a long healing process, Tim,” Victor said gently. “He’s going to tire easily for a while. But that’s all right; it’s normal. He’ll be okay, sport.”

“I know.”

Timothy went straight to his room when they got back to Victor’s flat. Presumably, he was working on homework, but Victor had a feeling that he was too distracted what with all that had happened to concentrate on it for long. He occupied himself with fixing dinner, debating for a while whether he should make enough for three or not. Sherlock would likely eat eventually, even if it was at two or three in the morning, when he finally stopped thinking long enough to digest. 

Strange, Victor mused, how quickly he had become used to cooking meals meant for more than one. He had never particularly enjoyed cooking, but he had picked it up quickly out of necessity when Timothy came to live with him. He had needed to adapt quickly, and he had managed it with relatively little fuss. He had always been a quick learner.

The transition back after Timothy left was going to be much more difficult, he felt. 

Timothy only picked at his food during dinner, and all of Victor’s attempts at conversation fell flat. Timothy eventually retreated to the main room, where he stretched out on the sofa and turned on the television. Victor cleaned the kitchen and brought out his laptop so that he could get some work of his own done. 

Victor worked for an hour without realising it. When he next glanced at the clock on the wall, it was nearing nine. Sherlock had yet to make an appearance, and the television was still playing in the other room. 

“What’re you watching?” Victor asked as he slid the kitchen door open and ventured into the main room. 

“James Bond,” Timothy said dully. 

“Good choice. Budge up.”

Timothy obliged without complaint, sitting up so that Victor could sit next to him. Victor then propped his legs on the low table in front of the sofa and balanced the drink he had fixed for himself on his thigh. They sat in thick, uncomfortable silence for a while, until Victor started a dry, running commentary on the movie. He kept it up until he was met with a snort rather than silence, and eventually they were both laughing. Timothy went into the kitchen to make some popcorn, and shortly after he returned, the scrape of a key in the lock announced Sherlock’s arrival.

Victor raised a hand in greeting as Sherlock entered the flat. He looked chilled, the collar of his coat turned up against the wind and his nose red from the sting of the cold air. He bent over the back of the sofa to press cool lips to Victor’s temple before moving into the kitchen, shedding his scarf, coat, and gloves as he went. 

“Everything all right?” Victor asked quietly when Sherlock returned fifteen minutes later, carrying a warm mug of coffee. He sat down on Victor’s other side. Timothy gave Sherlock a two-fingered wave, which Sherlock returned before settling back against the cushions.

“Fine,” he said, but in that tone of voice that suggested that there would be more for them to discuss when Timothy wasn’t within earshot. 

Timothy fell quiet, and several minutes later Victor glanced over to see that he had fallen asleep. His neck was bent at what had to be an uncomfortable angle, and Victor very carefully shifted so that his shoulder was resting just under Timothy’s temple, so that at least something was supporting his head. 

“Did you see Bowers?” Sherlock asked. Victor shook his head.

“No, I just picked Timothy up and came home. Why?”

“I need to interview him, sooner rather than later. I’m hoping he’ll be up for it.” Sherlock took a long swallow of coffee. “Not to mention the fact that I could do with your insight.”

“Insight into what?”

Sherlock lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “What your impressions of his injuries were.”

“Impressions of his injuries? The man was shot, Sherlock. I don’t know how much more straightforward it could get.”

Sherlock shrugged again, and Victor shook his head. They both turned back to watch the television, though Victor knew that neither of them was actually paying the film much attention. Timothy was now sleeping fully on Victor’s shoulder, and when Victor turned his head, Timothy’s mussed hair brushed against his chin. Timothy had only slept against his shoulder a handful of times during his life. The last time before this one had been the day of his mother’s death, when he had cried himself to sleep in Victor’s arms in that dingy bookshop on Market Street. 

He had been so much smaller then. 

Timothy roused in time to catch the last ten minutes of the movie. He lifted his head off Victor’s shoulder and rubbed absently at his cheek, which now held impressions from the wrinkles on Victor’s shirt. 

“Feel like going to school tomorrow?” Victor asked him. Timothy stared at him.

“What?”

“You can have the day off to visit with your dad, if you want,” Victor elaborated. He rubbed Timothy’s shoulder. “You look like you could use a break. What do you think?”

He gave Timothy a tentative smile, but Timothy’s face darkened. He held Victor’s gaze defiantly.

“Oh, what the fuck do you care about me, anyway?” he snapped. And then, before Victor could react, Timothy pushed himself abruptly to his feet and stormed out of the room. A moment later, his bedroom door slammed shut. Victor heaved a heavy sigh and passed a hand over his face. He leaned forward and picked up his glass, downing the rest of the drink in one long swallow. It was some moments before he spoke. 

“All right.” Victor set his glass aside. “Now, where did that come from?”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him. Victor hated that expression. It meant that something completely obvious was eluding him. 

“What’s the variable?” Sherlock asked. “What made today different from all the ones that came before it since he started living with you?”

“He saw his father.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “He saw his father.”

“Shit,” Victor muttered. “You think the old man said something to him?”

“I have no idea. I’m simply approaching this situation logically. The only thing that has made today different from all the others is that Christopher Bowers is back in the picture.” Sherlock got to his feet. “I’m going to bed.”

“Yeah,” Victor said absently. “I’ll join you in a bit.”

 

Timothy’s bedroom door was closed, and Victor rapped on it lightly with his knuckles.

“Can I come in?” he asked. It was a long while before Timothy answered.

“I s’pose.”

Timothy was sitting at his desk, working on his laptop. Victor pulled up a chair and peered at him intently over the top of the laptop. Timothy pointedly ignored him.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Timothy said shortly.

“Timothy.”

“Fuck off,” Timothy growled suddenly. Victor reached over and pushed the cover of his laptop closed. Timothy’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing, and he wouldn’t meet Victor’s eyes.

“Tim,” Victor said gently. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

Timothy’s expression shifted, and he looked as though he was struggling to remain composed. He swallowed hard and eventually wrested control of himself again, his face becoming a neutral mask. 

“I’m fine,” he said quietly. Victor snorted.

“No, you’re not,” he said bluntly. “What happened with your dad today at the hospital?”

Timothy’s look was swift and alarmed, but then he forced his eyes away from Victor again.

“Nothing.”

Victor sighed. “Look, Sherlock’s eventually going to be interviewing your dad about what happened to him. He’ll probably end up deducing it anyway. So is there anything he should know ahead of time?”

Leaning forward, Victor added, “Is there anything you’d rather tell him yourself?”

Timothy shook his head slowly, plainly torn. But Victor was uncomfortable pushing him this far. He was loath to upset Timothy further, and possibly drive him away.

“All right,” he said quietly, putting a hand on Timothy’s shoulder before pushing himself to his feet. Maybe Timothy would be up to speaking in the morning. “Get some sleep, Tim. You’ve had a hell of a day.”

“He said I got in the way.”

Victor sank back down into his chair. He fixed Timothy with a perplexed look. “Come again?”

Timothy was staring at the carpet. He repeated, softly, “He said I got in the way.”

“In the way of what?”

Timothy shook his head, and Victor knew that he was telling the truth this time when he said, “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Victor said. “Anything else?”

Timothy swallowed hard. “He said - he said I ruined everything. I got in the way, and I ruined everything. And that - I’m staying with you only because you were forced to take me in. Mum’s will and all. You hate having me here.”

“That is _not_ true,” Victor said swiftly and vehemently. He needed to dispel that idea before it had time to fully take root and fester in Timothy’s mind. “That’s absolutely not true. I enjoy having you here, Tim.”

“He said -”

“Your dad’s on a lot of medications,” Victor said. “He’s probably very fuzzy right now. Remember when I had my shoulder surgery, how out of it I was when your mum brought you to visit? Your dad was shot multiple times; he’s on a lot of painkillers as a result.”

“Why would he say those things?” Timothy pressed. His eyes were bright, and for the first time, Victor felt a surge of rage towards Christopher Bowers. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Victor admitted. “He’s probably very confused right now, thanks to his ordeal and injuries. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. When they start to wean him off the painkillers, the world will start to make a lot more sense to him. You can talk about it with him then. He probably doesn’t even remember the conversation.”

“Great,” Timothy muttered. Victor ruffled his hair, fighting to keep concern and worry out of his voice and expression. 

“It’ll be okay, kid. I promise.” 

“Yeah.” Timothy managed a weak smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll go to school tomorrow, by the way.”

Victor cocked an eyebrow at him. “Voluntarily going to school. I don’t know how I feel about that.”

Timothy snorted, and then he sobered. “I just don’t want to have to think about this anymore.”

Victor’s heart constricted, and he swallowed.

“Understood, sport,” he said gently. He got to his feet and clapped Timothy on the shoulder. “See you in the morning. Don’t forget to set your alarm.”

Timothy gave him a two-fingered wave and returned to his computer. 

\----

Sherlock rose the next morning to find Victor already out in the kitchen. His shirt was rumpled and dark half-circles sat under his eyes, and it would have been apparent to anyone who looked at him that he hadn’t slept the night before. Timothy was in the shower, and Victor had started cooking breakfast.

“What did Timothy tell you?” Sherlock asked, knowing immediately what the cause for Victor’s concern was. Victor drew a breath and relayed the events of the previous evening, and Sherlock was surprised by Bowers’ words.

“I can’t figure out what Christopher meant by it all,” Victor said miserably.

“Timothy ruined everything?” Sherlock asked. He turned this new piece of information over in his mind. “And he got in the way? In the way of what?”

“I was hoping it would make more sense to you than it does to me,” Victor sighed. “I was up all night trying to put it all together.”

“I can see that,” Sherlock said dryly. “Has there been any news?”

Victor shook his head. “No word from the hospital, and nothing from Christopher himself. Oh - Lestrade called, and he said he was going to be dropping by early this morning with photographs of Bowers’ injuries.”

Sherlock frowned. He could see Bowers’ injuries for himself when he went to interview him. “Did he say why?”

Victor shrugged. “No. Only that he thought that it was something you should see.”

“Interesting.”

Lestrade came by the flat shortly after seven-thirty.

“Thought you might like to see these,” Lestrade said, shoving the photographs abruptly into Sherlock’s hand.

“I’m going to see Bowers later this afternoon,” Sherlock protested half-heartedly

“You want to see those,” Lestrade repeated firmly, and Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. He looked down at the photographs in his hand, frowning. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly striking about Bowers’ wounds. He had suffered three gunshot wounds to his left leg. The gunshots had been fired at close range, Sherlock remembered that much from the police report. And the angle of the bullets - 

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed. 

“What is it?” Victor looked over his shoulder. Sherlock tilted the photographs so that he could see. “Oh, my God.”

“That’s what I thought,” Lestrade said grimly. “Those wounds were self-inflicted.”

“But why would he shoot himself if help was on the way?” Victor asked. 

Sherlock shook his head, his mind spinning, putting it all together. The tape recording, the hotel in Maidstone, the wounds, the words Bowers had spoken to Timothy…

“Because he didn’t want to be found,” Sherlock said quietly. “That kidnapping was staged. Bowers left of his own free will, and he had no intention of ever returning again. Lestrade, come with us to the hospital, and bring your least irritating officers with you.”

“He’s not at the hospital,” Lestrade said as Sherlock reached for his coat, shrugging it on. “He checked himself out this morning against medical advice.”

“Please tell me he hasn’t left again,” Victor said dully. Lestrade shook his head.

“No, he’s at home. He’s at Carlisle House.”

“Go. We’ll be right behind,” Sherlock ordered, and Lestrade vanished back down the stairs. Sherlock then reached for his mobile and punched in a number.

“John,” he said swiftly when the other man answered. “Meet us at Carlisle House. _Now_.”

He rang off without waiting for a response and rounded on Victor.

“You’re coming with me,” Sherlock said briskly, “and you’re bringing Timothy.”

“No.” Victor seized his arm, stopping Sherlock in his tracks. “God damn it, Sherlock, _no_. Timothy’s been through enough! Now you tell me your plan, _right now_ , or he isn’t coming. End of story.”

“I need him to be there,” Sherlock growled, shaking off Victor’s hand. Victor shook his head.

“Absolutely not. You think I’m an idiot? Christopher’s wounds were self-inflicted. Whatever he’s been up to, wherever he’s been, it’s _bad_. I won’t let Timothy witness whatever you’re about to do.”

“Victor,” Sherlock hissed, grabbing the sleeve of Victor’s shirt as he turned away. “Damn it, _listen_ to me. I need him there. I wouldn’t make this request if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. He will be all right, but I need him to come along. Please trust me.”

Victor swallowed. “That was always our problem, wasn’t it?”

“Not anymore.” Sherlock released him, and Victor stepped away. “Get Timothy. I’ll meet you downstairs. Quickly, please.”


	16. Chapter 16

Christopher Bowers received them in the main room at Carlisle House. He was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace.

“Forgive me if I don’t get up,” he said as they entered. He gave a visible wince of pain, though whether it was real or for show, Sherlock couldn’t tell. “For obvious reasons, it’s not exactly the most comfortable movement. Victor, how are you?”

“Fine, Christopher,” Victor answered warily. 

“Good, good. And Timothy - Victor’s been taking good care of you, I see.”

They hadn’t told Timothy about the truth behind his father’s wounds, but evidently the tone of his voice - unnaturally calm - was enough to put Timothy ill at ease. He frowned in confusion.

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. 

Victor went to stand on the other side of the room, where he could observe the proceedings from a safe and unobtrusive distance. He brought Timothy with him, and John joined them. 

Lestrade entered the house then, accompanied by three of his sergeants, and he nodded to Sherlock. 

“I’ll make this brief,” Sherlock said. “God only knows you don’t deserve more breath than is absolutely necessary. I know who is behind all of these crimes - both the murders _and_ your kidnapping.”

Bowers appeared intrigued. He sat forward slightly, wincing as he did so. 

“Go on, Mr Holmes,” he said.

“If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years,” Sherlock said quietly, “ _one thing_ , it’s this: murder isn’t complicated. It’s straightforward and, usually, quite simple. Whenever a person dies, the immediate family is always the first under scrutiny, and usually the culprit can be found there. Your wife is dead, and so is your eldest son. There’s no way Timothy alone could have staged such an elaborate plot. That leaves you, Mr Bowers.”

“You think I’m behind it all,” Bowers said.

"Marvelous deduction," Sherlock said dryly.

“And what motive could I have possibly had?”

Sherlock snorted derisively. “ _Motive_. You read too many murder mysteries. Motive is the least important element to a murder - though, yes, in this case, we will eventually be getting to that. But means and opportunity, _those_ are the two elements that should be considered first and foremost. I don’t particularly care why you committed this crime, only that you did. And you were the only one who could have engineered this whole plot.”

“How, Sherlock?” 

It was Victor’s voice that broke through the silence that followed Sherlock’s words, and everyone turned to look at him. But he was only looking at Sherlock, his gaze earnest and almost pleading.

_ Don’t let this be true.  _

“It’s simple, really," Sherlock said to Bowers. “Means and opportunity. You are one of three people who has access to _all_ of the security codes in the house. Every one of your guards can put this place into lockdown, but only a few of you can lift the security around the premises without arousing suspicion. You are one such person. Only two other people have all that access.”

“My two most senior guards,” Bowers said quietly. Sherlock inclined his head.

“One of whom is now dead,” he said softly. “The other was in his room at the time that Vine was let into the house - which we _can_ verify. The only way to shut down the entire house is to do it from the control room, which is three storeys below Victor’s room and clear on the other side of the mansion. Victor was the first agent on the scene, and he grappled with the suspect. His wing was sealed off from the rest of the house. If he’d been in the control room, he never would have made it in time.”

“The bodyguard responsible for this heinous crime against my family was given the codes by Trevor ahead of time in order to preserve his own innocence,” Bowers said sharply. “Surely even you can see that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Your stupidity is _painful._ We have already covered means. Opportunity is the other element. The bodyguard responsible for letting Vine into the house, Mark Sanchez? He works on _your_ security detail, Mr Bowers. In fact, he’s only on the premises two days a week, and during that time, he is confined to your wing of the house. Victor spent all of his time with Timothy. It is far more likely that you are the one who gave the codes to the bodyguard. You had the opportunity. Victor did not. And when I spoke to Sanchez, he said that this plot was not engineered by an outside force. He made that abundantly clear. That’s because it was engineered by someone _on the inside_.”

“But -”

“Sanchez was your lowest-paid guard,” Sherlock went on, talking over Bowers. “You paid him off to make it look as though the entire plot was his idea, and you paid both him and Vine off to take the fall for you. Victor comes from money, yes, but even he couldn’t have managed to pay off two other men.”

“Money would hardly do them any good in prison,” Bowers pointed out. Sherlock waved his hand.

“The money went to their families, where it was needed most,” he said dismissively. “There is also the small matter of the fact that you fabricated your own kidnapping.”

There was dead silence in the room for a long, profound moment.

“I should have realised it from the first,” Sherlock said quietly. “There was never any indication of anyone else having been in the house, even though you tried to make it look that way. The glass in your bedroom came from the broken window, yes, but the window was broken from the _inside_. The way the shards shattered indicate that you took a heavy object to the window - most likely the iron poker that sits by your fireplace. You made it appear as though someone had broken into your rooms and taken you against your will. And when you were discovered in that hotel room, Lestrade made a comment that it appeared as though no one else had been living there for two months. No one but you.”

“This is absurd,” Bowers protested.

“I agree,” Sherlock said smoothly. “Equally absurd is the fact that you shot yourself just as the police were coming to the rescue.”

“My abductors did that,” Bowers said, slowly and carefully. Sherlock shook his head.

“The angle of the gunshot wounds indicated that you shot yourself. There were no kidnappers. It was all you, Mr Bowers.” Sherlock felt his lips quirk. “That was a smart move, recording that message of yours on a tape. You probably assumed that there no longer existed equipment to properly analyze it. You were wrong. There was a reason why we never heard any other voices on the recording - you made it yourself, without any outside influences. You wanted to make it appear as though you had been kidnapped as a result of your now-unpopular reputation.”

He leveled a heavy gaze at Bowers, his expression stone.

“You knew of the bond between Victor and your son,” he said quietly. “You knew that Victor would stop at _nothing_ until he got to the bottom of this matter. You knew he was tenacious enough to uncover the entire plot. You had hoped, by using codes that Victor knew as well, you could steer suspicion away from yourself. When that didn’t entirely work, you removed him from Timothy’s security detail and away from the house.”

“And why, pray tell, would I put together such an _elaborate_ plot?” Bowers asked. He looked almost faintly amused.

“It was an elaborate ploy to earn you public sympathy and restore some of your image. Believe me, I know that desire quite well,” Sherlock said with a brief, mirthless smile. “The kidnapping ruse was a backup plan. First, you offered Sanchez money, both to arrange for Augustus Vine’s part in the plan and to take the fall in case anyone ever figured out that Vine couldn’t have managed such an elaborate scheme alone. Sanchez, out of all the guards on your security detail, is at the very bottom of the payscale. He couldn’t afford to turn down what was almost assuredly a foolproof plan. You gave him the codes, and he let Vine into the house that night while Marie Hammond was on her coffee break. Vine was then supposed to kill your eldest child before abducting your youngest one. Anthony was never meant to survive that night.”

Bowers scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”

Sherlock shook his head and plunged on. “This case hasn’t made sense from the beginning. Why leave Timothy alive for so long but kill Anthony right away? Clearly, he was needed. Anthony was not. It must be because Vine had been instructed to kill one child and kidnap the other. He was to hold Timothy for a time and make various demands of you, which you would desperately try to meet whilst giving teary interviews and pleading for Timothy’s safe return. Eventually, however, it would prove fruitless, and the case would come to a sad end when Timothy’s body was discovered. You take on the persona of a stoic but grieving father, and you soldier on in spite of your loss. The public adores you for it.”

“Again,” Bowers said, too calmly for Sherlock’s liking, “what would my motive have been? I loved my children.”

Sherlock turned around and stared hard at Bowers. 

“ _Love_ ,” he said finally, his voice impassive. “You forget; one of your children is still alive.”

The room was quiet and still for several long moments. Victor’s growing anger was palpable. Sherlock saw out of the corner of his eye that John shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, so that he could angle his body in front of Victor’s. If the other man decided to lunge at Bowers, John would be able to intercept him.

“But that failed,” Sherlock said, moving on swiftly so that he could bring this whole sorry affair to a close. “Vine wasn’t able to kidnap Timothy, and Anthony’s subsequent death wasn’t enough to restore your public image. If anything, it put you under more scrutiny. The papers ran article after article detailing the infamous reputation you had built for yourself in America. And so you came up with a backup plan.

“You staged your own kidnapping, Mr Bowers. After an indeterminate amount of time, you were going to turn up again, safe and sound and having endured countless horrors. You hoped that that on top of the death of your eldest son would finally sway public opinion and sympathies in your favour. Maybe even enough to restore your work.”

Timothy had his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He had gone white, and his gaze was fixed firmly on the floor. Victor reached out to touch his arm, and Timothy pulled away. Sherlock wrenched his eyes away and looked back at Bowers.

“Your first idea was to harm your children,” Sherlock said quietly. “That was your initial plan. You decided that was an acceptable sacrifice. You have already used them in the past in order to gain favour with the public. The fact that you did so again is hardly surprising.”

“You can’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same!” Bowers spat suddenly. Everyone stilled, and the air in the room turned to ice.

Sherlock stiffened, his blood starting to boil. “What?” 

Bowers leaned forward in his seat. “I’ve read about you in the papers. You were brilliant, once. You were highly-regarded, and your work was respected - just like me. Then you were a laughingstock; a fraud. You died, and you came back, but no one treats you like they did before. You would give _anything_ to have your old reputation back; to be at the height of your career. And if that meant a bit more sacrifice -”

_ Crack _

Bowers recoiled, blood spilling from his nose. Sherlock shook out his hand, grimacing, but his gaze was steady and furious.

“No,” he said flatly. “Go to hell.”

Sherlock turned away. He tugged his handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed it against his knuckles. The blood was Bowers’, but his knuckles were already red and swollen. They would be bruised by the morning. 

Behind him, Lestrade was speaking quietly to his sergeants. Victor was staring at Bowers in shock. Timothy was still standing off to the side, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, looking for all the world as if he wished he could disappear. John crossed the room and gripped Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Good job, mate.”

Sherlock nodded absently. He didn’t feel the way he normally did at the successful end of a case. Everything he had observed was painfully obvious; anyone could have done it. He had made no deductions or leaps in logic; he had seen nothing that an ordinary person also wouldn’t have noticed. 

But it was over. There was some relief to be found in that.

Christopher Bowers rose from his chair, the leather creaking in protest as he moved. Lestrade’s sergeants took a step forward, but didn’t crowd him. They were going to allow him the dignity of at least being able to walk out of his own home as a free man. Then, they would bring out the handcuffs.

Sherlock returned his attention to his knuckles. He almost dismissed the glint at the periphery of his vision, but then suddenly John disappeared from his side and someone shouted, _“Gun!”_

Sherlock’s reaction was instinctive. He threw himself to the side, catching Timothy by the shoulder and shoving him out of the way. The teen landed in a heap on the floor behind a sofa just as three rapid _cracks_ rent the air. 

Something slammed into Sherlock’s chest, an invisible force that threw him backwards and knocked the air from his lungs. He collapsed. Agony exploded across his chest. It felt as though someone had lit him on fire, and he cried out in surprise. Across the room, John and two of the sergeants had tackled Bowers to the ground.

Victor was at Sherlock's side in an instant. He dropped to his knees and wrenched open Sherlock’s shirt, shoving the fabric aside so he could better see Sherlock’s chest.

“Ambulance,” he barked sharply to someone Sherlock couldn’t see. 

It was slowly beginning to dawn on Sherlock that he’d been shot. Victor’s face was bloodless, and his white lips were set into a thin line. He pulled his scarf from around his neck and pressed it against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock swallowed a pained groan.

“Lestrade’s already called one.” John appeared at Sherlock’s other side. He took over, pushing Victor’s hands and scarf away so that he could examine the wounds for himself. His voice was calm, and he quietly assessed the situation. “Two bullet holes. One looks a little too close to his lung for my liking.”

John looked up, addressing his next words to the room at large. “I need clean towels, right now.”

One of the sergeants dashed off to find some. Sherlock’s right hand found both of Victor’s. His other shot out as another bolt of pain hit him, and he fastened it around the nearby sofa leg in order to keep from batting John’s hands away. It was getting harder to draw breath, and his chest hitched every time he tried to inhale. He could taste blood on his tongue, and tried to quell a growing panic. 

There was movement in the corner of his left eye, and Sherlock tilted his head to see Timothy sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest and his eyes wide with horror. His face was dangerously white.

“ _Go_ ,” he hissed to Victor, pulling his hand from Victor’s grasp. He gave Victor a shove in Timothy’s direction. “Needs you.”

Victor looked around, and then turned back to him.

“I can’t -”

“Have to,” Sherlock grunted. “He’s - he’s yours, now.”

Victor’s face twisted. He bent down and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, his nose, his cheek. 

“Love you,” he said hoarsely.

“I know,” Sherlock croaked. He watched Victor rush to Timothy’s side. He made sure the teen was all right before gathering him in a loose embrace and shielding him from view of Sherlock’s injured body. 

Lestrade appeared then at Sherlock’s side, looking extremely put out.

“Do you have to keep getting yourself hurt on my watch?” he grumbled in mock irritation. He took Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock squeezed it gratefully, channeling some of the pain.

“Dunno - why you put up with me,” Sherlock gasped. Lestrade gave him a fond look.

“I do,” he said simply. “Hang in there, son, they’re three minutes out.”

But the world had gone hazy at the edges, and Sherlock was rapidly losing the ability to focus.

“Stay awake,” John demanded. Someone had finally fetched him his towels, and he pressed one against the two gaping holes in Sherlock’s chest. The pain startled Sherlock, but he couldn’t muster the energy to push John away. “ _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself to slip away.

\----

He woke to darkness. 

The sharp scent of antiseptic, medicine, and chemicals assaulted Sherlock’s nose, and a machine beeped quietly to his left. He couldn’t keep his leaden eyelids open for long, and they shut of their own accord after a few seconds. He opened them again after a few minutes, taking in more of his surroundings. There was a curtain around his bed, and quiet conversation on the other side indicated that he was sharing a room with someone who had recently had some sort of abdominal surgery. 

Sherlock closed his eyes again and slept for an indeterminate amount of time. When he next regained consciousness, there was an occupied chair at his side.

Victor set aside his book when he noticed that Sherlock was awake and leaned forward, giving him a small smile.

“Hey, Blue Eyes,” Victor said quietly. He stroked a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock dragged a tongue across cracked lips and whispered, “My eyes are grey.”

“They’re blue sometimes,” Victor said. He brushed a thumb across one of Sherlock’s cheekbones. “Haven’t you ever noticed?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly.

“Well, I have,” Victor said softly. “And I think they’re lovely.”

“Don’t get all sentimental on me, Victor,” Sherlock rasped. “It was a minor injury.”

“A minor injury that collapsed your left lung and required eight hours of surgery to fix that _and_ remove two bullets from your chest,” Victor said, and Sherlock winced inwardly. Victor sighed. “Normally, I’d have given you a right verbal thrashing by now. But how can I? You saved his life, Sherlock.”

“How is he?”

“Physically, he’s fine,” Victor said quietly. Sherlock couldn’t tell for sure in the semi-darkness, but it appeared as though his eyes were shining. “He’s okay. Not a scratch on him.”

Victor wrapped both hands around Sherlock’s right one. There was a drip in Sherlock’s left, keeping him hydrated.

“Where is he now?” Sherlock rasped.

“John and Mary are looking after him at the moment. John sat up with you most of last night; I don’t think you remember.” Victor smoothed the hair off Sherlock’s forehead. “We traded off this morning. Timothy had a rough time of it last night, and I didn’t want to drag him here with me. But I needed to see you.”

Victor swallowed hard, looking pained. Sherlock tugged his hand free from Victor’s grip long enough to manipulate the controls on the bed. He raised himself into a half-sitting position, biting down hard on his lower lip to muffle the grunt of pain as his injuries were jostled.

“How long’s it been?”

“About a day,” Victor said. “You were in surgery most of yesterday. You woke up a few times this morning, but not for long. It’s almost seven, now.”

“Bowers?”

“Arrested, as you can imagine. I haven’t heard anything from Greg since the incident at the house.” Victor’s hand found his again. “How did you know all that, Sherlock? How did you figure it out?”

Sherlock closed his eyes.

“Because Bowers is right,” he said quietly. “I know what he’s been through. I know what it’s like to lose the work. I know what it’s like to want to give _anything_ to have your life restored.”

He sighed. “Most of that was pure conjecture, however. I could have woven any number of different theories based on the evidence. But I know myself. I know Bowers. I know we are more similar than most people would consider. I simply needed to goad him into confessing. I was simply lucky, all told.”

“You aren’t him,” Victor said, though his eyes were troubled.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock allowed. “But part of you wonders, doesn’t it? Especially given what I forced Timothy to witness.”

“I thought there might be a reason,” Victor admitted. “I hoped, anyway.”

“There is.” Sherlock paused and cleared his throat. His voice sounded as though he had come down with a bad cold - an effect of the tube that had been put down his throat when his lung collapsed. It would fade away in time. “My father isn’t dead.”

Victor frowned at the non-sequitur.

“Sorry?”

“My father,” Sherlock repeated, “isn’t dead, Victor. My parents divorced when I was twelve. I haven’t seen him since. When we met - it was easier to tell you that he was dead, because I didn’t know where he was and I had never been able to find him. That failure was painful. I didn’t want you to know. And then -”

He drew a deep breath. Victor’s hand found his again.

“My mother died,” Sherlock went on. “And that’s when the truth finally came out.”

“What truth?”

“My father was a horrible man,” Sherlock said flatly. “He beat my mother. He manipulated her. He cut her off from her friends, her family. It was a textbook case of abuse, and I never noticed any of it. Mycroft did, though. He was finally in a position to help her once he left for university. She was able to obtain the divorce and escape because of him. I wasn’t allowed to see my father after that, and I didn’t know why until after my mother died.”

“And after your mother’s death, Mycroft told you what had happened,” Victor said.

Sherlock nodded grimly.

“I spent six years blaming my mother for not allowing me to see my father. He was everything to me, those first eighteen years of my life. Then Mother died, and it was only then I realised how badly I’d been deceived, and that I could never make up for it. Mycroft and I don’t speak anymore, unless it’s related to work. I prefer it that way.”

“And your name…” Victor trailed off. “Oh, Sherlock. All those times I called you Daniel…”

“Don’t,” Sherlock rasped. “It’s fine. You didn’t know, and I didn’t want you to.”

“So why are you telling me this now?” Victor asked. “Not that I’m not grateful, mind.”

“Because I need you to understand why I wanted Timothy there,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t do it to be unnecessarily cruel. I did it - because he needed to see the monster his father truly is. I - couldn’t let him be deceived as I had been.”

Victor closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I could have told him afterwards -”

“And he wouldn’t have believed you,” Sherlock said swiftly. “Even if he had, he would have forever associated you with giving him that news about his father. He’d have been so furious, Victor. He’s have resented you. He needed to see for himself what the man was capable of.”

Victor swallowed hard, trying to rein in his composure.

“I don’t know how he’s going to get through this,” he said finally, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know how he’ll - and then if he has to testify -”

“No.” Sherlock squeezed Victor’s hand tightly. “No, I swear to you, Victor, that _will not_ happen. It can’t happen.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock went quiet for a moment, thinking.

“Because,” he said at last, his voice soft and full of pain, “if I’d known, all those years ago, what was going on, and if I’d been asked to stand up for my mother… I never would have said a word against my father. I couldn’t. He was my _father_.”

The silence that followed was a ringing one. Victor swallowed hard.

“Timothy can’t speak against his father. He _won’t_ speak against his father,” Sherlock went on. “So I needed to have it done for him. Christopher Bowers confessed in a room full of Scotland Yard officers, and he is unrepentant. Timothy will never need to face him in court. I promise you that.”

Victor stayed at his bedside for another three hours. A technician came by at one point to draw Sherlock’s blood, but other than that the ward was quiet and he was largely left alone. He dozed off and on, eventually pulled back into the world of consciousness by Victor squeezing his hand.

“Visiting hours are almost over,” he said regretfully, “and I need to go be with Timothy tonight. Will you be all right?”

Sherlock nodded groggily. Victor tugged on his coat, cupped Sherlock’s face, and then was gone a moment later. The curtains swayed in the wake of his departure, and Sherlock listened to his soft footfalls cross the ward until they faded entirely. 

It wasn’t much of a goodbye, Sherlock found himself musing in bemusement as sleep started to tug him back under. But, then again, goodbyes had never been Victor’s style.

\----

Victor arrived at John and Mary’s house at half-ten.

“How’s he doing?” John asked as Victor entered, stomping snow from his shoes. 

“He was awake for a bit,” Victor said. “He’s all right. Coherent but exhausted. You should visit him in the morning. I think he’d like to see someone who isn’t me for once.”

Mary offered him some tea, but Victor declined.

“Timothy's out on the porch,” she said finally. “He couldn’t sleep. John talked to him a bit, but I don't know if it helped. He’s really struggling with all of this.”

Victor felt his lips twist in sadness. 

“So am I,” he said quietly. “Thanks. I’ll just be a moment.”

Timothy didn’t look up when Victor slid open the sliding door and stepped out onto the porch that overlooked John and Mary’s small yard. He was wearing only a sweatshirt and jeans. Victor slid out of his coat and draped it over Timothy’s hunched shoulders before sitting down next to him on the bench.

“So I stay with you now?” Timothy’s voice was a croak.

“Provided you think you can put up with me for an extended period of time,” Victor said dryly. This he could do - avoiding the difficult situation with humour. Timothy snorted.

“I always get along with you.”

Victor gave a huff of laughter.

“Oh, hardly. You used to get so mad at me when you were little,” he said. “You never could understand why I wouldn’t play with you.”

Timothy snorted.

“I was stupid,” he muttered. Victor sobered.

“No, you were lonely,” he said quietly. Timothy had lived a life behind a wall--both literally and figuratively, having been raised behind the gates of a massive house and surrounded by a horde of men whenever he went anywhere outside of the family home. “You were five years old and lonely. And that was the one thing I couldn’t protect you from.”

Not that he hadn’t been tempted, of course. But it was a stipulation of his job: don’t interact with the children. He wasn’t there to watch out for their happiness, but to watch out for their lives, and he couldn’t do that if the very people he was supposed to be protecting also interacted with him. He was a quiet, steady presence in the background of their lives, and it was supposed to remain that way.

But he had also spent more time with Timothy than the boy’s own parents, and fourteen years of watching after the same child was bound to have an effect on him. There was no way it couldn’t; there was no way they could spend that much time with one another and not grow attached. Victor couldn’t ignore the fact that he was the one Timothy looked to first when in need of help or advice; that the boy had come to him with bumps and scrapes, even before his nannies and parents.

And Victor hadn’t always been allowed to tend to Timothy’s needs, but he also hadn’t always turned the boy away, either. Timothy was only four when he figured out how to get to Victor’s rooms from his own. Victor never would forget discovering him out in the corridor that first night at some ungodly hour of the morning, and only because he’d happened to venture out of his room for some water. Timothy had been sitting patiently in the corridor, shivering but unwilling to go back to bed. He’d had a nightmare, and he wouldn’t seek solace from anyone but Victor.

Victor had taken to leaving his bedroom door unlocked after that, and though Timothy knew better than to make a habit of it, it was always Victor he preferred, and Victor he would go to if he could.

“Mum’s dead,” Timothy muttered, interrupting Victor's reminiscence. He sniffed and pressed the back of his hand against his nose. “Anthony’s been murdered, Dad’s going to prison, and I - I didn’t even _do_ anything. I don’t know what I did to deserve it. I’m fourteen, and I haven’t got anyone left.”

Victor’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. He rested a knuckle under Timothy’s chin and pushed his head up, until he could meet the bleary eyes with his own.

“You have _me_ ,” he said firmly. “You have always had me. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Timothy’s eyes became very bright.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it,” he hissed. “Just _don’t_.”

“But I do mean it, Tim,” Victor said. “ _I mean it_. I’m not leaving you.”

“Sherlock -”

“ - can bloody well deal with it,” Victor said firmly. “I’m not sending you away.”

Victor reached for him, and Timothy came willingly. He allowed himself to be pulled into a crushing embrace without complaint, and he clutched at Victor so hard that his arms shook.

“Don't ever think that I'd do that to you," Victor whispered against Timothy’s hair. Timothy’s face was buried in his chest, and Victor cupped the back of his head with one hand. 

“But he loves you,” came the muffled retort.

Victor gave a huff of disbelieving laughter. _He loves me_.

“Yes,” he said softly. “And I love him. And that’s a wonderful thing, a delightful bonus. But it’s not everything. Because you know something?”

He rested his cheek on top of Timothy’s head and shut his eyes, breathing in the scent of laundry soap and teenage boy, remembering a time when Timothy wasn’t all lanky limbs and sharp angles. There’d been a time, not very long ago - too long ago - when the boy had been no taller than Victor’s knees, and it must have been only yesterday that he was learning how to properly say Victor’s name.

When had he grown to be so big?

“I first met you fifteen minutes after you were born. I got to see you grow up,” he whispered. “That means _everything_ to me, Tim. And I can’t wait to see who you’ll become.”

Timothy shuddered, and then he finally started to weep - not audibly, but his shoulders shook and Victor could soon feel his shirt growing damp.

“Shh,” he soothed, raking his fingers through Timothy’s hair. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

It was several more minutes before Timothy stopped shaking, and for a long time after that he simply sat there, still, while Victor rubbed soothing circles into his back. He eventually lifted his head from Victor’s chest, but refused to meet his gaze. Victor ran the heel of his hand over both of Timothy’s damp cheeks and smoothed a thumb over his puffy eyes.

“You’re all right,” he whispered, dropping a kiss onto the top of Timothy’s head. “You’ve got me. You’ll _always_ have me. And you know something?  You were the first person Sherlock asked about when he woke up this evening.  I don’t think he minds having you around nearly as much as you think he does. ”

They returned to Victor’s flat. Timothy settled on the sofa and turned on the television. Victor changed into a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, and then went about his normal routine of making sure all the door and all of the windows were locked. He drew the curtains in the main room, and when he turned around, he was struck by the sight of Timothy sitting alone on the sofa. He looked impossibly small in the flickering light from the screen. The rest of the room was in shadows, and Timothy seemed on the verge of being swallowed by the darkness. 

Victor joined Timothy on the sofa. He propped his legs on the ottoman and sank back against the thick cushions, and Timothy settled against his side. He rested his head on Victor’s chest, over his heart, and Victor automatically wrapped an arm around Timothy’s shoulders. His free hand went to Timothy’s head, and he carded his fingers gently through Timothy’s hair.

He didn’t think Timothy was going to be able to fall asleep tonight, not after all that had happened, but within half an hour Timothy’s eyes dropped closed and his breathing evened out.

Victor followed him into sleep soon after.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock was released from the hospital at the end of the week.

Victor took him back to his flat, and Sherlock almost immediately fell asleep in an armchair before the fire. He slept for hours, for when he next woke, the flat was cold and it was well after midnight. Someone had thrown a blanket over him - probably Victor.  But the television had been left on, and Sherlock carefully turned his head to survey the rest of the room.

Timothy was sitting on the sofa, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped loosely around his legs. He was wearing pyjama bottoms and a large sweatshirt that Sherlock recognised as one of Victor’s.

“You snore,” was all he said when he noticed Sherlock awake. Sherlock gingerly pushed himself to his feet, wincing, and shuffled into the kitchen.

“Blasphemy,” he muttered. He rooted through Victor’s cabinets for a mug and a tin he knew that Victor always kept on hand, no matter the season. The task was more difficult than he had been expecting, because he flat-out couldn’t lift his left arm past his chest and his right arm protested the movements. But eventually he accomplished his task, managed to heat some water, and stirred two spoonfuls of the powdery mix into the mug. 

Sherlock finished stirring the mug and then carried it out into the main room. He dropped a gentle hand on Timothy’s head, ruffling his hair, and then handed him the mug.

“What’s this?” Timothy’s voice was hoarse. Sherlock took a seat next to him on the sofa and propped his feet up on the table.

“Hot chocolate.” Sherlock folded his hands on his stomach and closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath of relief. “The cure for all forms of insomnia.”

Timothy was quiet for a moment, and then he took a tentative sip of the liquid. 

“My mum used to make this,” he said finally. “When I was little and couldn’t sleep at night.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know. Mine did the same. All good mothers do, you know.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m not sorry that you know about your father,” Sherlock said. He paused, gathering his thoughts. “However, that being said… I do regret how I broke the news to you. And I  am  sorry that your father has turned out to be so reprehensible.”

“Thanks,” Timothy said awkwardly, apparently realising that it was a strange thing to be thanking Sherlock for. “Um. What’s gonna happen to him now?” 

“There will be a trial, and he will almost assuredly be convicted. Prison after that, but it’s hard to say for sure how long.”

Timothy scrubbed a hand across his face. Sherlock didn’t look at him. They pretended to watch the television. But he did lay an arm across the back of the sofa, as he had seen Victor do on more than one occasion, and Timothy leaned his head against it. 

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked softly, because he knew that’s what Victor would say in this situation.

“No,” Timothy whispered. Sherlock wrapped his arm around Timothy’s shoulders, and they lapsed into silence.

Victor woke up about an hour later, and Sherlock heard him rummaging around in the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, downed part of it, and then came out into the main room. 

“All right, what are you boys doing up?” he asked in a sleep-roughened voice. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and ruffled Timothy’s hair before coming around the sofa and sitting on Timothy’s other side. He had thrown on a blue dressing gown over his pyjamas, and Sherlock took a moment to register that it was his own.

“Watching television,” Sherlock answered neutrally.

“Uh-huh.” Victor glanced sideways at Timothy, who was half-asleep against Sherlock’s arm. “What’s wrong, sport?”

Timothy snorted. “Everything.”

“Bad phrasing, sorry.” Victor reached out and brushed a thumb across Timothy’s cheek. Sherlock had been ignoring the occasional tear that leaked from the boy’s eyes this evening, as he had a feeling Timothy wouldn’t want him drawing attention to it. But Timothy was more lenient with Victor than he was with anyone else, and Victor could get away with it.

“Do I have to testify?” 

“No,” Sherlock said firmly. “It’s all taken care of.”

“Do I have to go to the trial?”

“Hey, sport, look at me,” Victor said, leaning forward slightly so he could meet Timothy’s gaze. “You never have to see him again if you don’t want to, all right? You never have to speak to him, either.”

“He’s my dad, though.” Timothy swallowed. “When did he stop loving me?”

Sherlock and Victor glanced at each other over Timothy’s head. Victor looked at a loss for words, and Sherlock couldn’t think of any response, either. 

“Was it easy for you to stop loving your dad?” Timothy went on. He was looking up at Sherlock now, his eyes pleading. “After what he did and all…”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that, because in all honesty, his feelings towards his father could be described as  complicated  at best. He loved the father he had known. The Daniel Holmes he had grown up with had been attentive and kind, and he had instilled in Sherlock a life-long curiosity about the world around him, even though his intellect had never been able to match his son’s. But the Daniel Holmes he had discovered later, the monster who had abused his mother - Sherlock hated him. And he had never been able to properly reconcile the two in his mind, even though he knew they were one and the same. 

“I don’t know if I ever did,” he said quietly. “Or if I ever will. I’m sorry.”

Timothy nodded stiffly. Sherlock patted his shoulder and withdrew. This time, Victor had to help him to his feet, and he walked Sherlock to the bedroom with a guiding hand on his elbow. 

“He’ll be all right,” Sherlock said quietly to Victor’s drawn face. 

“I know,” Victor said, but he didn’t sound convinced. He kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “I’m going to stay up with him a bit longer. Sleep well, love.”

\----

Christopher Bowers was sentenced on a dreary February morning. 

John delivered the news to Victor, as Sherlock and Lestrade were both tied up at the Yard. Lestrade was slated for a battery of press conferences and public statements, and Sherlock was doing - well, whatever it was Sherlock did at the conclusion of a case.

“I just thought you should know,” John said, “before he heard it… elsewhere.”

Victor nodded absently. In all honesty, he looked as though he was about to lose his composure. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, and he let out the occasional shiver. The latter was probably due to the fact that they were both standing outside Victor’s building, and that Victor was only wearing a sweatshirt. He was smoking, an occasional habit that John guessed was only brought on by stress. Timothy was still upstairs, sleeping. 

“Life in prison,” Victor muttered. He shook his head. “If I’d had my way…”

“You don’t have to tell me,” John said grimly. “If I’d had  my  way, the bastard would be rotting six feet under right about now.”

“Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

John knew he should have found it strange that  this  was the thing that they could agree on; the one thing they could even bond over. Lodging a bullet into Christopher Bowers’ brain; this was acceptable and even welcome conversation. 

“Listen, John,” Victor said as John turned to go, “I was wondering - do you happen to know -”

He broke off. 

“Go on. It’s just the two of us,” John prompted. 

“Do you happen to know a decent therapist?” Victor asked bluntly. “I can’t help Timothy through this. I don’t even know where to begin. He could probably use someone to talk to who isn’t me, yeah? I mean, I’m assuming…”

He trailed off. 

“Yeah,” John said after a beat, digging his ever-present notebook out of his breast pocket. “Yeah, sure. Here. Give this one a call. She’s - well, I didn’t appreciate her at the time, but she’s fantastic. And if she can’t help you, I guarantee she’ll be able to find you someone who can.”

He scribbled Ella’s information on a piece of paper, tore it out of his notebook, and handed it to Victor.

“Thank you,” Victor said, his voice thick. “Look, I’m sorry -”

“Me, too.”

They stared at one another for a beat. Finally,  Victor held out his hand, and John shook it.

“I’m glad to have met you,” he said. 

John nodded. “Same here, mate.”

\----

Victor broke the news about Christopher to Timothy later on that morning, when Timothy finally pulled himself from bed. He had gone back to sleeping in the spare bedroom, which Victor tentatively took as a good sign. While Timothy was no doubt still reeling and grieving, he must have at least some small peace of mind now. 

Timothy took the news well, and Victor wasn’t sure if he should be concerned about that or not. 

“So what happens now?” Timothy asked quietly. 

“We have a decision to make,” Victor said. “Well.  You  have a decision to make.”

He pushed the sheaf of papers across the table. Timothy glanced at the first couple of paragraphs.

“Guardianship papers,” he said, and Victor nodded. 

“Mycroft apparently wants an answer by the end of the day,” he said bitterly, still irked by the terse text Sherlock’s brother had sent him an hour ago. “I told him this was a decision that couldn’t be rushed, but he was very insistent, given that your biological guardian is indisposed…”

Victor trailed off. Timothy was still staring at the stack of paperwork, his face blank. 

“You need to do what’s best for you, Tim,” Victor said gently. “Do what makes you happy, okay? Believe me, it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you chose to live with your aunt or any of your other relatives - ”

Timothy grabbed the pen before he finished his sentence and scrawled his name across the line at the bottom of the page. Victor blinked, stunned into silence. Timothy then flipped through the next several pages, signing and initialing where required, before shoving the papers over to Victor.

“Here,” he said abruptly, handing Victor the pen. 

Victor, his mouth dry,  woodenly signed the papers, etching his name next to Timothy’s hurried scrawl on each page. He crossed the final  T , capped the pen, and set it aside with exaggerated care. 

“Tim -” he started, and then stopped, for what could he possibly say to this? He had been a bodyguard for fourteen years and a guardian for a few months, but with a few quick strokes of the pen he had just become a parent. 

“I wish you  had  been my dad,” Timothy blurted suddenly, and Victor’s heart clenched. “Why did it have to be him?”

Victor made an aborted movement towards Timothy, reaching out without a clear idea of what he intended to do, and Timothy read an invitation in his gesture. He crossed the distance between them and hugged Victor tightly around the middle, burying his face in Victor’s shoulder and releasing a choked sigh. Victor wrapped his arms around Timothy and buried his face in the teen’s fine hair, hugging him back just as fiercely. 

“It’s gonna be okay, kid,” he said gruffly. “You’ve got me now. And I’m - I’m so lucky to have you. I’ll watch after you. I promise.”

“What about Sherlock?” Timothy asked, his voice muffled against Victor’s shirt. Victor pulled back slightly.

“You let me worry about him, okay?” he said, and Timothy nodded. “The only thing that matters right now is  you . What do you want, Tim? What do you need?”

Timothy looked conflicted for a moment. He chewed on his bottom lip and his gaze flicked away from Victor’s face. Victor settled his hands on Timothy’s shoulders and squeezed gently. Timothy finally met his gaze again.

“I want to go home.”

\----

Sherlock returned from the Yard shortly after midnight. 

He looked in on Timothy, ascertained that he was deeply asleep, and felt something ease slightly in his chest. He walked through the kitchen on the way to Victor’s bedroom and spotted the signed guardianship papers, and nodded to himself in satisfaction. Good. Everything seemed to be in order, then. 

Victor was asleep as well, and Sherlock crawled into bed next to him. They slept apart on this night, only because Sherlock’s chest still pained him, and sleeping in any position other than on his back was uncomfortable. He couldn’t have Victor on top of him, either, as pressure aggravated his healing injuries. They would have to do without lying tangled together at night, at least for the time being.

Sherlock slipped into a light doze. When he woke again, hours later, the bed was cold.

He found Victor out on the roof. Dawn had already broken over the horizon, pink and orange and yellow, and the cool night air was receding fast.

Sherlock pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket as he approached his friend. He lit two and handed one to Victor, who took it without his usual reticence. He tilted his head back when he blew out the stream of smoke, and Sherlock found his gaze drawn to the curve of Victor’s neck. 

“Have you been awake long?” 

“No. Yes.” Victor shrugged absently, staring out at the horizon. “I don’t know. A little while, at least. I saw the sun come up.”

“You could have woken me,” Sherlock said. Victor shook his head.

“You needed your sleep,” he said, and Sherlock knew his presence hadn’t been wanted. That thought left a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and he took a long draw on his cigarette. It didn’t help. 

“I spoke to Mrs Hudson earlier today when I stopped at Baker Street,” Sherlock pressed on, because Victor was quiet and he wasn’t used to silence accompanying his friend. “She says that you and Timothy are free to move in at the end of the week.”

“That’s kind of her to be so accommodating,” Victor said softly. “Sherlock -”

“There’s extra storage downstairs, as all of your things obviously won’t fit in the flat -”

“Sherlock -”

“ - but I can fit another wardrobe in my room, and Lestrade has an old bookcase he’d be willing to give me. Us. John’s room is still fully furnished, so Timothy would - ”

“We’re not staying.”

Victor said the words calmly, flatly, but even though his voice was soft the sentence reverberated like a shout. Sherlock swallowed.

“Right,” he said tightly, because he’d have been lying if he’d said that the possibility hadn’t crossed his mind. Ever since the night he’d uncovered Christopher Bowers’ true motives, he’d known something like this was coming. “When do you leave?”

Victor didn’t answer for a long moment.

“Within the next few weeks. As soon as we can get my flat and all relevant items from Carlisle House packed up.”

Sherlock felt as though someone had landed a blow to his gut and tried to cover his surprise by taking another draw on the cigarette. 

“That’s… soon,” he said when he realised that the silence had probably dragged on for too long.

“Timothy can’t even walk out the door without a horde of photographers coming after him,” Victor said bitterly. “No, he needs to get out of here as soon as possible. He’s fourteen years old, and he’s never known a quiet life. I think he deserves that much.”

“He can have that here,” Sherlock pointed out. “Mycroft could arrange it -”

“No, Sherlock,” Victor said gently, though his words were full of sorrow. “This is the country where Tim lost what remained of his family. No, he’ll not be staying here.”

“There’s still no reason why you need to give up your life and move halfway across the globe,” Sherlock snapped. Victor’s voice turned hard.

“It’s not giving up my life. He  needs  me, Sherlock. And - Christ, he’s probably one of the best things ever to happen to me. Don’t be like this. You’re not a child anymore. We can’t always have everything that we want.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Sherlock snapped. “You dropped off the face of the planet for sixteen years and didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me you were leaving! And I’m the child? How dare you act as though it’s distasteful to want something - to want  you .”

He drew a deep breath, reining himself in. “Where will you go?”

“I’m taking him back to America,” Victor said. “Tim told me that he wanted to go back there. I can’t make things go back to the way they were, but I can give him that much. The Bowers had some farmland in Virginia, where they vacationed when they weren’t at the ambassadorial residence. It’s Tim’s now, so that’s where we’re going. I’m - I’m taking him  home , Sherlock.”

Sherlock tossed the remains of his cigarette to the ground and crushed them beneath his foot, anger making his heart thud painfully against his ribcage.

“Why must you insist on making these decisions without me?” he snapped. “All that talk of _commitment_ and _relationships_ and bloody social convention and what’s good and proper, but none of that applies to you, does it! All this talk of _we_ and _us_ , it’s just that - talk. You can’t include anyone else in your decisions; in your life.”

“Sherlock -”

“This is what you’ve always done!” Sherlock was furious, and he was so bloody _tired_ of it all. “Things become difficult, or uncertain, or God forbid someone starts to actually _rely_ on you, and you run. You hide. You cut everyone else off, and you _leave_. So go ahead, Victor. Walk away again. It’s the only thing you’re good at.”

“Have you ever considered the fact that maybe it’s because you make it so _damned_ difficult to stay?” Victor shot back. 

Sherlock knew, even without a mirror present, that he had utterly failed to mask the pain that Victor’s words caused him. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. The blood left his face and cold flooded his veins, and for a moment he went light-headed. Victor’s own face quickly melted from anger to shock.

“Oh, God,” he whispered in horror. “Sherlock -”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said stiffly, holding up a hand. “Just don’t.”

He turned on his heel and left. Victor didn’t follow.

\-----

Sherlock spent three days avoiding his mobile. 

He missed three calls from John and five from Lestrade. Both men finally resorted to texting, but Sherlock ignored those messages as well. He didn’t even read them.

Victor called once, almost twenty-four hours after their final conversation, but he didn’t leave a message. And he didn’t try to contact Sherlock again. 

Mary called on the morning of the fourth day, and Sherlock finally picked up his mobile.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she said gently. “Listen, I’m just calling to check on your medications. Do you have enough painkillers to get you through the end of the week?”

Sherlock was thrown by this question.

“Er - yes, I should,” he said, because he’d honestly forgotten about his medications. He hadn’t been taking them. Maybe that explained some of the pain in his chest. But not all of it. 

“Wonderful. Just wanted to be sure. Listen - my shift here at the surgery ends at five. Can I swing by and see you? I want to take a look at those incisions; make sure they’re healing all right.”

Sherlock swallowed. 

“I don’t think so,” he said quietly. “Not just yet.”

There was a pause on the other end, and he thought she might press the matter.

“Okay,” Mary said finally. “Of course. Just - you know we’re here, right? If you need anything.”

“I do.”

“I’ll call again this weekend and see how you’re doing. Get some rest, love.”

She rang off, and Sherlock set the mobile aside with a hollow feeling. He had no idea where to go from here; no idea of where to even begin. 

How was he supposed to live without Victor a second time?

He managed it, somehow, and by the afternoon had managed to check his email and clean some of his old experiments out of the refrigerator, making room for new ones. The time passed slowly, but it  did  pass, and a little after five there was a knock on the door.

Sherlock suppressed a sigh. It wasn’t like Mary to go against his express wishes, but maybe she thought these were extenuating circumstances. 

But when Sherlock answered the door, it was Victor standing on the other side.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

Sherlock briefly considered denying his request, but he didn’t have the strength for it. He _couldn't_ say no to Victor when this was what he wanted most of all. Victor, here, with him. 

He stood aside, and Victor stepped into the flat. He kept his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, and he looked apprehensive.

“Look, I’ve been thinking,” he started, but then his eyes slid away from Sherlock’s face to fix on the fireplace. He bit the inside of his cheek, and then seemed to force his gaze back to Sherlock’s. “Months ago, I mentioned that someone once must have made you think you weren’t capable of compassion. And that you shouldn’t have listened to them. And I just - oh, hell. It was me. Wasn’t it? That person was me. I didn’t realise until the other day, when I said -”

He broke off.

“Victor.” But Sherlock didn’t know what to say after that, and so he fell silent.

“The look on your face when I said you made it difficult to stay,” Victor plunged ahead anyway, and Sherlock flinched. “That was an old pain. Those were words you’d thought hundreds of times before, and there I was confirming them for you. Except it’s not true. I was - I was angry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“There must have been some truth to your words, or they wouldn’t have come so easily to you,” Sherlock pointed out quietly. Victor’s mouth twisted.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked. “Why didn’t you say it had been me?”

“What good would it have done?” Sherlock countered. “It was years ago. And you were my best friend.”

“Those are the wounds that hurt the most,” Victor said quietly. “The ones that are inflicted by those we love.”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock said automatically, because it was expected of him. Victor shook his head.

“You didn’t let me finish, the other day,” he said quietly. “You left before I - not that I should have expected anything else, mind. I’ve hurt you so much over the years. I couldn’t have expected you to - but I didn’t get a chance to finish, and I want to do that now.”

He drew a deep breath, and said, “I’m moving Tim to America. I’m taking him home. And I wanted to ask if you would come with us.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, reminded himself to breathe, and then finally managed, “What?”

“I never intended to leave you behind like I did before,” Victor said quietly. “And I wasn’t going to steal away in the dead of night without another word. You deserve better than that. This time - if you don’t want to come, it’s your choice. I’m not making it for you. But I _am_ telling you that, if you’re willing - I want you to come with us. I want you in my life, I want to grow old with you, and - and no matter what you decide, I want you to know that you are _loved_.”

“I -” Sherlock broke off. He cleared his throat, trying to bring his thoughts under control. “I have a life here.”

“I know,” Victor said. “Damn it, Sherlock, I _know_ this must be damned difficult. You have your work. I don’t want to ever ask you to give that up. I never would dream of it. But I need to look after Tim as well, and if you think you could reconcile your life with that future - well, I’d like that. And if not, I understand.”

Sherlock looked to the window, tearing his eyes away from Victor’s earnest gaze and fixing them instead on the flakes of snow that were falling outside. 

“No, I don’t,” he said softly. “I don’t have the work anymore. I can’t see things the way that I used to. I can’t deduce anymore.”

“The case got solved because of you,” Victor said.

“The case would have been solved back in August if I hadn’t been so blind. It never would have got this far.” Sherlock finally forced his eyes back to Victor’s face. “I have no right calling myself a detective anymore.”

“Don’t say that,” Victor said. He looked stricken. Sherlock shook his head.

“You should’ve come back sooner,” he whispered. “You should’ve _been here_ , Vic. Seven, eight years ago - oh, you should’ve seen me. I was _spectacular_.”

He swallowed hard, and added, “I wish you could have seen that. Me at my best. After the Reichenbach case, but before the fall. I was _brilliant_.”

“You still are,” Victor said thickly. 

“But I’m not the same,” Sherlock said quietly. “I’m not what I was.”

“You’ll always be him - the Great Detective,” Victor said. “What you did is never going to change. But maybe - maybe it’s time for something different now. Life in the slow lane. It might do you some good. Might do us both some good, at that. And - I think it would be good for you to be around Tim. You can be for him what your father never was for you.”

“I’m not nurturing, Victor,” Sherlock said dryly. 

“You’re honest,” Victor said. “With me, with Timothy… you are _you_. Not some mask or facade. That matters more. And to be honest - Timothy already assumed you were coming with. He already thinks of the two of us as a unit. It never occurred to him that - that you might stay behind.”

Victor paused. He swallowed visibly.

“Let’s just see where this goes,” he said softly. “We never had that chance before.”

Sherlock turned away from him and walked over to the window. He clasped his hands behind his back, looking out at the steel-grey sky and the tendrils of smoke that rose from chimneys all over the city. London was in his blood, coursed through his veins, and he couldn’t fathom a home anywhere else. 

But then again, it hadn’t felt like much of a home since his return. He was a man with his skin on all wrong, living a life that didn’t quite fit in a city he no longer recognised.

Victor was still standing on the other side of the room, hands in his pockets, thrumming quietly with nerves. The silence between them thickened, but Victor wasn’t going to be the one to break it. 

Sherlock shut his eyes against the London sky, breathing in the cold air that pulsed from the glass. His heart thudded against the inside of his ribcage, painfully quick, and his palms were clammy. He parted his lips, his answer poised on the tip of his tongue.

Outside, the snow continued to fall.


	18. Epilogue

The sun disappeared from sight long before its light left the sky. 

It slid behind the hills, which were then silhouetted against a backdrop of vibrant orange and yellow rays - a final burst of colour before darkness stole over the northern Virginia landscape. They had been prolonging this particular sunset all day, having left London at dusk and landing in the U.S. just as the sun was about to set again. The same sun; the same sunset. It boggled Victor’s overtired mind, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. His body was insisting that it was the middle of the night, even as his eyes told him otherwise. And there was still much to do before they could sleep.

The white clapboard farmhouse sat at the end of a long, winding drive. No one had lived here since Elizabeth Bowers’ death five years ago, but her husband had refused to sell the house. It belonged to Timothy now, and it was the closest thing he had to a childhood home. It seemed only natural to bring him back here. 

But the house had largely fallen into disrepair. Christopher Bowers had paid staff to look after the property and take care of the Bowers family horses, but no one had seen to the general upkeep of the house. Victor had orchestrated most of the repairs from England, hiring contractors and carpenters to assess the damage and make the home habitable again. They were due to be finished within the next week. Right now, only the living room and portions of the ground floor were usable. 

The two-storey home had been built in the colonial style, though it was actually only a decade old. The shutters around the windows were a deep blue, and tall white pillars framed the front entrance. The house on the inside was largely unchanged from what Victor last remembered of it. The furniture in the living room had been covered in white sheets, and the ornate fireplace was cold and empty. 

With Timothy’s help, he shifted the furniture so that the plush rug in the middle of the room could be used for them to sleep on. They had stopped at a convenience store on the way from the airport and purchased two inflatable mattresses. They would have to make do for the next couple of days, until the bedrooms had been deemed satisfactory.

Victor set about figuring out how the mattresses were supposed to inflate. Timothy had made the mistake of sitting on one of the sofas, and he was now practically asleep, his neck bent at an undoubtedly uncomfortable angle. Victor was loath to disturb him.

The back door opened and closed just then, and Victor looked up to see Sherlock standing there. He had gone out half an hour before to inspect the property, even though Victor told him they could do that in the morning. 

“Does the property meet your satisfaction, then?” Victor asked. 

Sherlock flicked off his torch and then toed off his shoes.

“Indeed,” he said, a smile touching his lips. “The land behind the barn especially will be perfect for the hives.”

“I thought as much. Come on, give me a hand in setting up the living room. Tim’s already half-asleep as it is.”

Sherlock helped him inflate and arrange the two mattresses, and then he assisted with putting bedclothes and blankets on each one. Timothy woke up long enough to fetch pillows from the linen closet, and he distributed them accordingly. The mattresses lay at right angles to one another, their corners mere inches apart in the confined space of the living room. 

Only one bathroom was functional, and so they all took turns washing up and changing. Timothy was already asleep on his makeshift bed by the time Victor returned from the bathroom, and Sherlock was stretched out on the other mattress, a book propped up on his chest as he read. 

“G’night, Tim,” Victor murmured. He adjusted the blankets around Timothy’s still form, and Timothy grunted sleepily in acknowledgement. 

Victor crawled under the bedclothes on the mattress he was sharing with Sherlock. Sherlock switched off the lamp before doing the same. They lay on their sides, facing one another, and Victor reached out to smooth Sherlock’s curls from his forehead.

“So how do you like Virginia so far?” Victor whispered. He needn’t have bothered - a storm wouldn’t have woken Timothy. But it was a habit.

“Rather warm, isn’t it?” Sherlock observed. Victor chuckled.

“You’re going to bloody _hate_ summer here, then.”

Sherlock snorted. 

“The property is beautiful,” he said. “And I’m unaccustomed to seeing this many stars at night.”

“The house is going to need work, even after all the rooms are habitable once again,” Victor said. “I hadn’t realised it had fallen into such disrepair.”

“I was planning on making a project of it,” Sherlock said quietly. “The kitchen needs to be refurbished, and the south side of the house needs new siding. Timothy’s closet could use an expansion, too.”

Victor blinked at him. “You’d do all that?”

“I _am_ capable of it, you know,” Sherlock said dryly.

“I know, but -”

“I will need to keep myself occupied somehow,” Sherlock said, cutting him off. “Between that and the bees - well, it should keep me from setting fires in the kitchen. For a while, anyway."

Victor snorted and rolled his eyes. Sherlock kissed him, and they lapsed into a comfortable silence. There was so much they still needed to discuss, and so many things that still needed to be accomplished. They couldn’t unpack until work was finished on the rooms, and then they needed to go out and purchase furniture. The majority of their belongings would be arriving from England over the next week or two, trickling in with the post each day. There was so much yet to be done before this would feel like home.

But it would, one of these days.

Timothy whimpered in his sleep. Victor rolled over and reached over to the other mattress, placing his hand gently on top of Timothy’s head. He still had nightmares, but they had found that sometimes a simple, grounding touch was enough to ease him back into a peaceful sleep.

“Shh,” Victor whispered. “Shh, Timmy, it’s all right.”

Victor carded his fingers through Timothy’s hair for some time. Timothy never woke up fully, and he quieted after several minutes. Even after he went still and his breathing evened out, Victor kept his hand on Timothy’s head.

Sherlock pressed up against Victor from behind. He draped his arm across Victor’s waist, pulling him into a loose embrace. 

“I’m scared for him,” Victor whispered.

“I know.”

“I’m scared for _us_.”

“I know.” Sherlock kissed the shell of his ear. “But you practically raised him, Victor. You needn’t do anything that you haven’t already done before.”

“Did I do the right thing?” Victor whispered. He turned his head to look at Sherlock. “Did we?”

“Do you love him?” Sherlock asked quietly. Victor nodded. “Then you did the right thing. The rest will fall into place.”

Sherlock fell asleep first, his face pressed into the back of Victor’s neck and his warm breath ghosting across Victor’s skin. Victor laced their left hands together. He cupped his free hand around the back of Timothy’s head, letting it rest there gently as reassurance. 

The moon was a pale, thin wafer in the inky-blue sky, the darkest the night ever got this close to the city. In the morning, Victor would wake to a burnished-gold Virginia dawn; to mist-shrouded trees and grass tinged with dew. He would wake to his partner and his child, and to the life they had chosen together. 

The night would scrub away the indignities, the pain, of the day, and with the morning they would start anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who took the time to read this story and leave feedback. I can't tell you how much I've appreciated it. There will be a short follow-up fic coming at some point in the future (a coda, of sorts), but for all intents and purposes, this universe is self-contained and complete. Thank you for reading.


End file.
